VERRILL    MIQHELS 


Dunny 


A    Mountain    Romance 


By 

Philip  Verrill    Mighels 


Author  of 
'  Bruvver  Jim's  Baby" 


«  The  way  of  a  Child  is  the  way  of  the  Heart' 


New  York  and  London 

Harper  £r  Brothers  Publishers 
1906 


Copyright,  1906,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  September,  1906. 


Annex 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  LOST  IN  THE  SNOW i 

II.  A  PARTNERSHIP  IN  CARE 8 

III.  WHEN  LOVE  AND  DUTY  MEET.     ...  15 

IV.  A  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 26 

V.  A  FEAST  GOES  BEGGING 38 

VI.  A  WELCOME  TO  THE  EARTH      ....  45 

VII.  COMPLICATIONS  AGAIN  COMMENCE       .     .  50 

VIII.  A  GREENWOOD  MEETING 57 

IX.  JERRY  is  ANGERED 66 

X.  DUNNY  ACQUIRES  A  PROPERTY      ...  76 

XI.  DUNNY  DISCOURAGES  A  SUITOR     ...  84 

XII.  A  SURPRISE-PARTY 93 

XIII.  CONCERNING  SYLVIA'S  FATHER       .     .     .  112 

XIV.  DUNNY  HAS  AN  ADVENTURE     ....  122 

XV.  IN  THE  CAMP  OF  THE  DESPERADOES  .     .  133 

XVI.  A  BREWING  MUTINY 144 

XVII.  Two  MEN'S  DECISIONS 152 

XVIII.  How  Two  MEN  MET 161 

XIX.  LOVE   WILL  FIND  THE  WAY       .     .     .     .  168 

XX.  A  BATTLE  ON  THE  HILL 179 

XXI.  TID  FLACK'S  DISCOVERY 184 

XXII.  THE  HAND  OF  ASA  CRAIG 191 

XXIII.  ALLAN   BRAVES  AN  ORDEAL       ....  201 

iii 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXIV.  JERRY'S  HOUR  ARRIVES 214 

XXV.  DUNNY  MEETS  MR.  CRAIG     ....  224 

XXVI.  WHEN  A  HEART   BEGINS  TO  SOFTEN  .  234 

XXVII.  DUNNY'S  FEARFUL  EXPERIENCE      .     .  242 

XXVIII.  A  VISIT  TO  TAMARACK 254 

XXIX.  WHEN  LOVE  HATH  WAITED  ....  259 

XXX.  To  SEAL  A  HAPPINESS  262 


DUNNY 


DUNNY 


LOST   IN   THE   SNOW 

T  was  out  in  the  mighty  snow-fields 
of  the  high  Sierra  mountains,  on  the 
day  when  the  train  was  to  plough  its 
way  across  the  summit,  that  Fate 
began  with  her  mischief. 

What  a  scene  it  was!  There  were 
mountains  everywhere — a  great,  silent  brother 
hood  of  peaks  and  ridges,  marvellously  white  in 
all  their  ermine  raiment,  against  a  sky  of  the 
deepest,  clearest  blue.  There  was  snow  on  snow 
in  all  the  panorama  of  immensity.  In  the  cav 
ernous  ravines,  in  valley  -  like  depressions,  on 
prodigious  shoulders  and  rock -girt  pinnacles, 
it  lay  in  a  blanket  fathoms  deep,  moulded 
smoothly  over  everything.  There  was  snow 
enough  to  build  a  planet ;  and  down  on  all  the 


DUNNY 

dazzling  world  the  sun  was  shining  in  splendor, 
but  without  a  ray  of  heat,  although  the  spring 
was  well  advanced. 

The  railroad  track  was  lost.  As  if  through 
virgin  soil  as  white  as  chalk,  the  long,  slim  train 
was  scoring  a  furrow.  Three  black  locomotives, 
puffing  in  all  their  lust  of  strength,  and  flinging 
forth  voluminous  clouds  of  smoke,  were  driving 
the  snow-plough  with  a  force  that  appeared  ir 
resistible.  The  plough  itself  was  like  the  sharp 
ened  beak  of  a  ship.  From  either  side  of  its 
knife-edge  prow  the  snow  was  being  hurled  in 
a  curving  torrent  that  fell  as  much  as  thirty 
feet  away. 

Within  the  cars  the  passengers  were  hardly 
aware  of  all  that  was  taking  place.  Among  them 
there  was  only  one  who  thoroughly  enjoyed  the 
various  sensations,  for  the  task  of  ramming 
through  the  drifts  was  fraught  with  uncertainty 
and  peril.  This  one  distinguished  traveller  was 
a  bright-faced,  brown-eyed,  pretty  little  boy, 
sturdy,  sweet-tempered,  and  winsome,  whose 
friends  could  have  been  counted  from  the  last 
trailing  coach  to  the  engines  out  in  front. 

To  him  the  constantly  changing  speed,  the 

jolting,  buffeting,  and  swaying  were  but  part 

of  a  nighty  game  in  which  he  gloried.     And 

beside?,    his    sister    Sylvia   was    on    the    train. 

2 


LOST  IN  THE  SNOW 

Nothing  could  happen  while  she  was  near  at 
hand,  for  nothing  ever  had. 

He  was  three  cars  away  from  his  sister  and 
his  rightful  seat,  and  not  even  Allan  Kennedy 
was  here — Allan  who  was  such  a  splendid  chum 
— but  with  two  old  ladies  who  needed  some  one 
to  point  out  all  the  wonders,  the  little  man  was 
perfectly  happy. 

In  the  midst  of  his  joy  and  childish  prattle, 
the  train  was  presently  brought  to  a  stop. 
Ahead,  in  the  huge  locomotives,  the  men  in 
charge  of  the  panting  monsters  were  holding 
a  brief  consultation.  That  the  drifts  in  the  cut 
a  mile  up  the  grade  were  deep  and  solid  they 
were  well  aware.  With  the  weight  of  all  the 
train  behind  them,  the  engines  might  not  have 
the  power  to  cleave  their  furrow  through.  It 
was  therefore  decided  to  cut  the  train  in  half 
and  proceed  with  but  three  of  the  forward 
coaches,  which  would  be  retained  for  the  sake 
of  added  momentum.  The  remainder  of  the 
train  would  be  left  temporarily  behind,  to  be 
picked  up  after  the  drift  should  be  cleared 
away. 

To  facilitate  the  gaining  of  speed  and  head 
way  for  the  plough,  the  entire  train  was  backed 
for  nearly  a  mile.  Here  it  was  once  more  halted, 
the  process  of  division  was  completed,  and  the 
3 


DUNNY 

locomotives,  with  three  of  the  cars,  leaped  ex 
ultantly  forward  to  their  work. 

Their  speed  was  terrific  when  again  they 
struck  the  drifts.  Through  the  shallower  cuts 
they  sped  with  triumphant  energy.  The  snow 
cascaded  from  the  plough's  great  share  in  a 
miniature  Niagara,  resembling  fluffy  foam.  With 
a  clank  and  roar  and  the  din  of  their  puffing, 
the  engines  cleared  their  path  superbly.  And 
then  the  Sierra  Titan,  whose  coverlet  of  snow  it 
was  that  a  triple-headed  worm  was  rumpling, 
shook  himself,  as  if  in  irritation.  An  avalanche 
of  broken  lumps,  like  marble  shattered  from 
a  quarry,  slid  down  from  the  slope  above  the 
track,  and,  falling  sheer  upon  the  engines,  smoke 
and  all,  abruptly  blotted  out  their  prowess. 

For  a  moment  the  great  steel  creatures 
shouldered  mightily  to  heave  the  burden  off 
and  ram  their  way  ahead.  In  smothered, 
herculean  throes  they  panted,  swayed,  and 
trembled.  Their  powerful  wheels  churned  mad 
ly  at  the  choking  slide  of  frozen  stuff,  and 
then  were  blocked  immovably.  Quaking,  even 
as  a  bullock  quakes  in  the  final  nutter  of  its 
muscles,  the  mechanisms  settled  rigidly  upon 
the  rails  and  were  absolutely  still.  The  smoke 
came  firating  up  from  the  bed  of  snow,  as  if 
from  the" chimney  of  a  buried  cabin. 

4 


LOST  IN   THE  SNOW 

Five  minutes  later,  when  the  men  in  charge 
attempted  to  back  the  plough  from  its  sheath  of 
frozen  lumps,  the  pack  closed  in  and  held  the 
mass  of  steel  in  a  grip  that  nothing  could  loosen. 
Neither  backward  nor  forward  could  the  plough 
be  moved — and  a  half  of  the  train  was  back 
there  nearly  two  miles  distant,  lying  deserted 
in  the  still,  white  wilderness. 

For  the  promised  return  of  the  engines,  the 
passengers  back  there  in  the  helpless  coaches 
waited  patiently.  The  moment  came  at  last, 
however,  when  the  sturdy  little  chap  at  play 
with  the  two  old  ladies  began  to  be  worried. 
He  discovered  that  something  was  wrong.  The 
whole  front  end  of  the  train,  not  only  with  the 
bragging  locomotives,  but  also  with  his  sister 
Sylvia,  was  gone. 

The  situation  was  explained  by  a  man  who 
entered  the  car.  The  little  fellow  listened,  but 
he  only  half  believed  that  any  cars  ahead  would 
presently  return.  An  hour  went  by  and  he  was 
thoroughly  alarmed.  Assurances  were  vain. 
The  one  poignant  feature  of  the  whole  affair  was 
that  Sylvia  was  gone  and  that  here  there  were 
no  big  locomotives  to  move  him  along  to  where 
she  was.  He  was  hardly  more  than  seven  years 
of  age ;  his  only  logic  was  the  reasoning  of  child 
ish  love.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
5 


DUNNY 

enforced  separation  from  his  sister.  She  was 
comfort,  shelter,  mother — home;  and  where  she 
was  he  could  not  know,  save  that  he  knew  she 
was  somewhere  far  ahead  in  the  car  where  they 
both  belonged. 

For  a  little  while  longer  he  waited,  and  then, 
when  no  one  was  watching,  he  quietly  slipped 
from  the  forward  door  of  the  foremost  coach, 
and,  dropping  down  from  the  steps  to  the  track, 
started  up  that  narrow  corridor  of  snow  as  fast 
as  he  could  trudge. 

Bareheaded,  unprotected  from  the  mountain 
cold,  without  even  mittens  on  his  hands,  the 
eager  little  chap  was  soon  around  the  curve  of 
the  rails  and  plodding  ahead  with  undaunted 
purpose. 

The  path  that  the  plough  had  cut  through  the 
banks  of  white  was  like  a  trench  that  flowed 
with  frozen  air.  The  wind  was  eddying  through 
it  in  a  current  of  wintry  essence.  When  the 
worried  little  man  was  out  of  sight  of  the  cars 
behind  him,  there  was  something  awesome  in 
the  tomblike  chill  and  silence  of  the  lane  in 
which  he  was  travelling  alone. 

But  visions  of  Sylvia's  tender  eyes  and  sounds 

of  her  comforting  voice  were  in  his  heart.     She 

was  all  he  had  in  the  world,  and  though  the 

width  of  the  continent  might  intervene  between 

6 


LOST  IN  THE  SNOW 

them,  he  would  keep  on  going  till  he  found  her 
once  again. 

The  snow  beneath  his  little  feet  was  hard  to 
walk  upon.  He  made  a  crooked  little  trail  as 
he  hastened  on.  His  steps  were  short  and  there 
seemed  to  be  no  end  to  this  deep  canal  in  the 
snow. 

What  a  tiny  little  spark  of  life  he  seemed,  in 
all  this  prodigious  clan  of  mountains!  He  had 
walked  no  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  when 
his  breath  was  gone,  his  hands,  face,  and  ears 
were  tingling  with  the  chill,  and  his  two  small 
legs  were  beginning  to  weary.  But  he  plodded  on. 


II 


A   PARTNERSHIP   IN   CARE 


HE  snow  was  crisp  with  sharpened 
freezing;  it  made  a  tiny  sound  of 
creaking  as  the  busy  little  feet  fell 
and  padded  on  its  surface.  Ahead 
there  was  nothing  save  the  curving 
channel  gouged  in  the  overpowering 
bulk  of  snow.  On  every  side  the  mountains 
towered  upward  in  the  majesty  of  solemn  do 
minion.  How  far  could  it  be  to  Sylvia  ? 

Misgivings  soon  took  on  the  guise  of  fears  in 
the  little  traveller's  breast.  The  air  was  so  cold, 
the  silence  so  terrible,  the  world  so  huge!  Yet 
he  entertained  no  thought  of  turning  back. 
He  stumbled  a  little  in  his  eager  haste,  he  even 
fell  upon  his  small  red  hands,  and  the  tears 
sprang  forth  from  his  eyes,  but  he  still  trudged 
forward  in  the  ditch. 

The  sameness  of  the  corridor  and  the  never- 
enSing  curves  of  the  roadway  were  most  dis 
heartening.     Surely  he  must  be  near  his  sister 
8 


A  PARTNERSHIP    IN    CARE 

now,  he  thought.  He  stopped,  very  tired,  and 
with  all  his  little  might  he  called  out: 

"  Sylvia!" 

Not  even  an  echo  made  response.  The  calm 
was  awful. 

With  his  small  feet  beginning  to  loiter  clum 
sily  in  each  other's  way,  the  determined  little 
man  went  on,  to  the  next  great  marble  curve, 
and  again  stood  still  to  call  his  sister's  name. 

"Sylvia!  Syl-via!"  he  cried,  and  stumbled 
forward  as  before. 

Meantime,  more  than  a  mile  ahead,  where 
the  helpless  steel  leviathans  lay  half  buried  in 
the  snow,  a  worry  akin  to  that  which  a  mother 
might  experience  was  gaining  momentarily  on 
Sylvia  herself.  She  was  quite  alone  in  the 
Pullman  section,  from  which  she  had  missed 
her  little  brother  more  than  half  an  hour  before 
that  halving  of  the  train.  The  dizzy  leap  of 
the  engines  rushing  again  to  the  task  of  channel 
ing  the  snow  had  absorbed  her  attention  com 
pletely.  The  subsequent  thud,  followed  by 
the  trembling  of  the  locomotives,  and  then  by 
the  ominous  quiet,  had  held  herself  and  her 
fellow  -  passengers  in  the  keen  absorption  and 
expectancy  incident  to  helplessness  in  the  pres 
ence  of  unknown  perils. 

During  the  hour  in  which  the  engineers  had 
9 


DUNNY 

been  making  futile  efforts  to  spur  their  con 
quered  locomotives  to  activity  sufficient  to 
back  away  from  the  frozen  chaos  fallen  in  upon 
them,  Sylvia  had  vaguely  thought  of  her  small 
brother  as  being  somewhere  in  the  charge  of 
Allan  Kennedy. 

Now,  however,  she  presently  heard  the  car 
door  closing,  and,  turning  about,  felt  her  heart 
give  a  leap  in  her  bosom.  Her  gaze  was  met 
by  the  bright,  joyous  glance  that  sped  from 
Allan's  eyes,  though  she  saw  he  was  quite  alone. 

He  came  towards  her  actively,  a  tall,  broad, 
manly  young  fellow,  smooth  -  shaven,  brown- 
eyed,  and  with  an  air  of  honesty  and  frankness 
upon  him  that  had  worked  some  subtle  charm 
upon  her  nature.  She  tried  to  calm  the  glad 
ness  rising  in  her  bosom,  but  it  bounded  un 
heeding  in  her  veins.  Nevertheless,  her  thought 
went  instantly  back  to  her  worry,  heretofore  a 
trifle  vague. 

"Why — Mr.  Kennedy!  I  thought  you  and 
Dunny  were  somewhere  off  together,"  she  said. 
"Do  you  know  where  he  is?" 

"I  thought  he  was  here  with  you,"  he  an 
swered,  in  his  friendly  way.  "If  he's  not,  then 
he's  probably  back  there  in  one  of  the  cars  we 
left  behind." 

"Oh,"  she  said. 

10 


A  PARTNERSHIP   IN   CARE 

He  saw  she  was  anxious,  but  chiefly  he  noted 
a  newer  mood  of  beauty  on  her  face.  With  her 
steady  gray  eyes,  compassionate  and  soft,  her 
glossy  black  hair,  her  oval  cheeks,  her  sensitive, 
smypathetic  mouth,  and  the  virginal  glow  of 
her  color  he  was  well  acquainted,  yet  he  gazed 
with  wonder  and  ecstasy  upon  the  infinite  love 
liness  exemplified  at  present  in  her  almost  ma 
ternal  expression  of  concern. 

"I'm  sure  the  little  fellow  must  be  safe — must 
be  back  there  in  the  cars  all  right,"  he  said. 
"You  know  he  was  traipsing  from  end  to  end 
of  the  train  all  the  time." 

"I  should  have  been  watching,"  she  replied. 
"If  he  isn't  there —  I  felt  so  sure  he  was  some 
where  near,  with  you.  What  are  they  trying  to 
do  with  us  now?  Are  we  caught  in  the  snow?" 

He  said:  "I'm  afraid  we  are.  They're  begin 
ning  to  shovel  the  engines  out.  But  don't  you 
worry  about  little  Dunny.  He  is  sure  to  be 
with  friends.  There  isn't  any  one  on  the  train 
who  isn't  his  friend." 

"We  —  don't  like  to  be  apart,"  she  said. 
"How  long  will  it  be  till  they  can  dig  the  en 
gines  out?" 

"They've  only  got  the  firemen's  shovels,"  he 
answered.  "It  looks  to  me  like  work  enough 
for  at  least  a  day." 

ii 


DUNNY 

"A  day?"  she  echoed,  suddenly  standing  up. 
"How  far  is  it  back  to  the  cars  we  left  behind?" 

"A  mile  and  a  half  or  more.     But  why — " 

"I'm  going  back  there.  If  anything  has  hap 
pened — " 

"No,  no — I'll  go.  I'll  gladly  go  and  fetch 
little  Dunny  to  you  here,"  he  interrupted. 
"You'll  let  me  do  a  little  thing  like  this?" 

Her  heart  was  bounding  at  the  confident 
sound  of  his  voice. 

"He  left  his  hat  and  his  mitts  and  scarf," 
she  said,  a  little  distraught,  as  she  caught  up 
the  tiny  things  from  the  seat.  "I  don't  know 
why  I  didn't  feel  worried  before." 

Kennedy  took  the  miniature  woollen  protec 
tors  from  her  hands  in  his  masterful  way. 

"Don't  be  worried,"  he  said.  "I'll  be  back 
with  him  here  as  soon  as  I  can  make  it." 

A  look  of  trust  and  gratitude  burned  in  her 
eyes.  She  hardly  knew  why  she  should  be  so 
poignantly  haunted  with  fears,  but  at  that  very 
moment  the  weary,  freezing  little  Dunny,  far 
back  in  the  universe  of  snow  and  mountains, 
was  calling  her  name  as  he  stumbled  more  and 
more  slowly  along  through  that  channel  made 
by  the  plough. 

Something  of  quick-born  divinity  awed  and 
thrilled  Allan  Kennedy,  responding  for  a  second 

12 


A  PARTNERSHIP  IN  CARE 

to  the  look  in  Sylvia's  eyes,  and  then  he  hasten 
ed  away. 

Out  of  the  silence  and  frozen  world  a  wailing 
little  cry,  too  far  away  to  be  caught  from  the 
air,  came  nevertheless  to  the  hearing  of  Sylvia's 
nature.  She  clasped  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of 
care  that  she  could  not  fathom  with  her  thought. 
She  waited  there  for  ten,  for  fifteen  minutes; 
then,  unable  longer  to  endure  the  pull  upon  her 
heart,  she  threw  on  a  shawl  and,  hastening  out 
at  the  end  of  the  chopped-off  train,  ran  with  all 
her  speed  and  strength  towards  the  great,  smooth 
curve  of  the  track  around  the  bend  of  which 
Allan  Kennedy  had  already  disappeared. 

With  the  sun  blazing  coldly  down  upon  him, 
the  utterly  disheartened  little  pilgrim,  trudging 
through  the  lane  of  white,  was  barely  stumbling 
forward  now,  so  weary  and  numb  were  his  feet. 
He  presently  stopped,  from  the  sheer  necessity 
of  rest. 

"Sylvia — please — come!"  he  cried,  in  his  tired 
little  voice,  and  then  he  weakly  plunged  face 
downward  on  the  hard,  cold  floor  of  the  channel, 
and  was  far  too  weary  to  struggle  again  to  his 
feet. 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  a  tall,  dark  figure 
appeared  in  the  pitiless  trench  ahead,  and  came 
with  amazing  swiftness  towards  him,  the  lit- 

13 


DUNNY 

tie  fellow  beheld  him  and  staggered  to  his 
feet. 

"Allan — oh — Allan!"  he  called,  and  fell  again, 
with  his  two  little  arms  extended  on  the  snow. 

The  strong,  warm  figure  of  comfort  that  pres 
ently  embraced  him  had  all  but  lost  identity, 
so  close  to  fatal  stupor  had  little  Dunny  come, 
and  then  every  other  sensation  was  engulfed  in 
a  gladness  too  great  for  belief. 

"Dunny!"  said  a  voice  that  was  choking  with 
affection;  and  that  was  enough  for  any  small 
traveller  to  hear. 

Then  up  where  the  curve  was  bent,  a  figure 
distraught  and  blown  by  the  wind  came  sud 
denly  flying  upon  them.  It  was  Sylvia,  sped 
by  the  anguish  of  her  love,  responding  unerring 
ly  to  Dunny's  failing  cry. 

In  one  swift  pang  of  intuition  she  realized 
what  must  have  happened.  She  almost  fell  as 
she  caught  the  little  brother  in  her  arms,  and 
for  one  brief  moment  she  was  held  by  Allan 
Kennedy  in  a  clasp  almost  of  partnership. 


Ill 


WHEN    LOVE   AND    DUTY   MEET 


HAT  in  fateful  times  there  come 
alarms  from  every  cardinal  point  of 
the  heart,  Miss  Sylvia  Weaver,  in  the 
snow  -  blockaded  train,  was  acutely 
aware. 

For  five  long  days  the  cars  and 
engines  had  lain  inactive,  lost  in  the  frozen 
mountains.  During  that  first  trying  day  the 
severed  coaches  of  the  train  had  been  once 
more  united,  but  all  thought  of  going  forward 
had  been  abandoned.  The  second  day  a  fresh 
and  vigorous  storm  had  rendered  even  retreat 
impossible.  With  resources  strained  to  the  last 
degree,  the  train-men  had  managed  to  find  an 
end  of  the  broken  telegraph-wire  and  to  send  in 
a  message  of  their  plight.  The  reply  had  come 
that  trains  behind  them  were  likewise  blocked, 
even  to  that  one  conveying  a  crew  of  shovellers 
intended  for  purposes  of  rescue.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  wait. 


DUNNY 

The  noon  of  this  fifth  day  found  the  passen 
gers  wretched.  Food  supplies  were  becoming 
alarmingly  scarce;  the  sky  was  overcast  and 
threatening  another  storm  of  snow;  the  cold 
was  undiminished. 

With  all  of  this  to  think  upon,  Sylvia's  worry 
had  been  doubled.  She  shared  in  the  common 
anxiety,  but  within  herself  she  felt  a  deeper 
alarm  to  which  the  delay  was  hourly  adding. 
It  was  not  for  Dunny,  for  that  quaint  young 
man  had  swiftly  recovered  his  accustomed 
spirits  and  was  now  the  one  unfailing  sunbeam 
of  the  many-jointed  house  of  cars.  No,  her 
doubts  and  fears  were  all  encased  in  her  own 
irrepressible  heart. 

If  only  Allan  Kennedy  had  not  been  so  kind! 
If  only  the  train  could  have  finished  its  journey 
on  time!  She  thought  of  a  score  of  "ifs"  that 
could  not  work  a  change  in  things  already  done, 
and  then  she  was  face  to  face  with  facts. 

Again  she  was  sitting  alone  in  her  seat.  Gaz 
ing  out  of  the  window  on  the  congress  of  moun 
tain  colossi,  robed  so  forbiddingly,  she  felt  that 
the  outcome  of  the  situation  was  quite  as  in 
scrutable  as  fate  itself  —  the  fate  which  had 
schemed  to  bring  her  once  again  to  the  country 
of  her  b:rth. 

She  loved  this  land,  even  in  its  frozen  au- 
16 


WHEN   LOVE   AND   DUTY  MEET 

sterity,  and  yet  she  almost  feared  it — doubtless 
for  the  overmuch  that  might  be  locked  in  all 
this  rugged  word  for  her  and  hers.  Despite 
herself,  a  warm  little  lamp  in  her  bosom  glowed 
and  gave  her  joy,  but  it  gave  her  no  light  with 
which  to  see.  Was  it  really  the  slowly  awaken 
ing  love  that  she  ought  to  feel  for  the  man  she 
had  come  so  far  to  meet  and  marry  ? — or  might 
it  be  the  new,  sweet  laughter  of  her  heart,  re 
sponding  unbidden  to  the  glad  emotions  spring 
ing  so  constantly  from  the  eyes  of  Allan  Ken 
nedy? 

She  dared  not  think.  This  white  blockade — 
how  long  could  it  last,  keeping  them  here  so 
close  together?  She  had  no  right  to  wish  for 
greater  delay,  and  yet — what  sort  of  a  man  was 
Jerry  Kirk,  who  had  called  her  hither  from 
across  the  continent? — and  what  was  to  be  the 
end  of  her  fateful  pilgrimage  ? 

She  tried  once  more  to  supply  the  unknown 
attributes  of  the  man  to  whom  she  was  going — 
to  whom,  indeed,  she  would  have  come  by  now, 
had  not  this  snow  so  roughly  played  with  the 
train.  Yet  how  could  she  know  the  heart  of  a 
man  she  had  never  seen — how  construct  him 
from  a  photograph,  abetted  by  a  package  of 
his  letters? 

She  took  his  picture  from  her  satchel.     As 


DUNNY 

always,  the  eyes  gazed  smilingly  out  from  the 
bit  of  inanimate  paper,  and  the  look  of  strength, 
youth,  and  wholesomeness  was  there.  She  liked 
this  photograph,  with  the  name  "Jerry  Kirk" 
inscribed  beneath  it.  Someway  all  the  hope  she 
had  known  in  the  sad  days  of  her  mother's 
final  illness  was  linked  with  a  thought  of  the 
man  who  had  sent  her  this  token.  It  was  some 
thing  resembling  love  she  felt  for  Jerry  Kirk, 
and  yet — 

His  letter  was  here  in  her  pocket.  For  the 
twentieth  time  .she  drew  it  forth  and  glanced 
it  through. 

"Since  your  father's  death,  little  friend,"  she 
read,  "I  have  wondered  and  wondered  if  I  have 
the  right  to  go  on  writing  and  feeling  the  same 
as  I  did  before.  The  way  we  started  to  sending 
these  letters,  you  and  I,  was  mighty  pleasant, 
and  it  did  me  lots  of  good  to  have  the  little  notes 
from  you  come  along  in  your  letters  to  your 
dad.  I  loved  him,  Sylvia,  I  reckon  all  the  more 
for  his  letting  me  share  a  little  bit  of  the  real 
home  feeling  which  I'd  never  have  had  but 
for  thh.  Well,  I  don't  know  what  I  ought  to 
write  you  now.  I've  thought  it  all  over  till  I'm 
broke  on  thoughts,  and  it  always  comes  the 
same  old  way.  I'd  like  you  to  come  out  here 
and  be  my  wife — that's  how  it  works  out  every 
18 


WHEN   LOVE  AND   DUTY   MEET 

time.  You  can't  live  all  alone,  you  and  little 
Dunny,  and  you  shouldn't  be  made  to  try  it. 
Perhaps  you'd  like  this  country,  where  you  first 
saw  the  sun.  What  do  you  say  ?  I  own  it  ain't 
all  unselfishness,  for  I've  grown  to  think  of  you 
constantly.  Your  letters  are  more  to  me  than 
anything  I've  ever  had  in  the  world.  I  want 
you  and  Dunny  to  come  out  here — come  home. 
If  you  feel  you  can't,  why,  that's  all  right. 
The  money  I  send  will  put  you  through,  if  you 
make  up  your  mind  you'd  like  to  see  the  good 
old  West  again;  and,  in  case  you  can't  pull  up 
and  leave  the  East,  why  use  the  money  to  add 
to  your  comfort  where  you  are." 

All  of  Sylvia's  tenderness  of  feeling  towards 
the  man  whose  care  could  so  embrace  herself  and 
her  orphaned  little  brother  coursed  in  her  veins. 
She  had  always  felt  more  than  merely  an  inter 
est  in  Jerry  Kirk;  she  had  felt  many  girlish  incli 
nations  towards  romance  as  his  letters  arrived. 
Now  she  owed  him  a  debt  of  gratitude,  not  only 
for  all  he  had  done  for  herself,  but  also  for  the 
love  which  his  hearty  nature  extended  to  little 
Dunny.  Her  honest  wish  was  that  something 
might  hasten  the  train  on  its  way  and  permit 
her  to  keep  the  tryst  that  her  answer  to  Jerry 
had  promised. 

In  the  midst  of  her  meditations,  Allan  Ken- 


DUNNY 

nedy  appeared  in  the  car,  striding  up  the  aisle 
with  her  bright-eyed  little  brother  on  his  shoul 
der.  Her  heart  gave  a  quick,  spontaneous  leap. 
Do  what  she  would,  her  gaze  was  caught  and 
held  by  Allan's  look  of  pleasure. 

She  watched  the  grace,  the  fine  reserve  of 
strength,  with  which  the  young  man  took  Dunny 
down  and  placed  him  on  the  floor.  She  felt  a 
tingle,  half  of  guilt,  half  of  ecstasy,  the  moment 
the  little  fellow  sped  from  Allan's  arms  to  her 
own,  to  give  her  one  of  his  childish  kisses. 

They  made  a  charming  pair  together,  she 
and  her  unspoiled  little  champion.  The  family 
resemblance  between  them  was  remarkable, 
despite  emphatic  contrasts  of  feature.  The 
same  frankness  and  look  of  compassion  shone 
in  her  eyes  and  his,  though  hers  were  gray  and 
his  as  brown  as  chocolate.  Her  hair  and  his 
had  the  self-same  look  of  abundance,  yet  the 
little  chap's  was  brightly  golden,  while  hers 
was  glossy  black.  Between  them,  color  had 
been  prodigal  of  its  favors,  and  freshness  and 
sweetness  of  nature  were  there  to  keep  it  com 
pany. 

Allan  Kennedy  was  certain  he  had  never  seen 
a  girl  so  beautiful.  When  Dunny  would  have 
sped  avray,  to  visit  his  two  old  ladies,  Sylvia 
gently  restrained  him  for  a  second. 


WHEN   LOVE  AND   DUTY   MEET 

"Come  back  and  sit  with  me  pretty  soon," 
she  said,  and  Dunny  promised  that  he  would. 

"Won't  you  have  a  seat?"  she  added,  to 
Allan.  "I  thought  I'd  like  to  ask  you  one  or 
two  questions." 

"Nothing  could  make  me  happier,"  answered 
Kennedy. 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly  as  he  took  his 
place.  Her  heart  was  beating  excitedly.  In 
fear  of  herself  and  in  fear  of  what  she  felt  must 
presently  happen,  if  nothing  were  done  to  pre 
vent  it,  she  meant  to  place  a  barrier  across  the 
path  that  was  leading  Allan  and  herself  to 
dangerous  ground.  Her  face  was  a  trifle  pale. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  if  you  know  very  much 
about  the  country  up  about  Tamarack,"  she 
said.  "We  are  going  there  to  live." 

"To  live ?"  he  repeated.  "We  shall  be  neigh 
bors!  The  lumber-camp  I  told  you  of,  where  I 
am  expecting  to  work,  is  only  thirty  miles  from 
Tamarack.  It's  mighty  pretty  country,  on  the 
eastern  slope  of  the  grand  old  Sierra  Nevada." 

"I'm  glad — glad  it's  pretty,"  she  answered. 
"Do  you  happen  to  know  a  man  there  by  the 
name  of — Jerry  Kirk?" 

"No,  I  don't  believe  I  do.  I  was  never  in 
Tamarack  but  once,  and  then  only  in  passing 
through.  Is  Mr.  Kirk  a  friend  of  yours?" 

21 


DUNNY 

Sylvia  felt  her  heart  knocking  tremendously. 
This  was  the  crucial  moment.  She  could  not 
meet  the  look  in  Allan's  eyes — the  look  of  ardor, 
swiftly  crystallizing  into  something  vastly  more 
profound,  more  compelling,  more  joyously  mag 
netic  to  her  very  being.  But  she  meant  to  go 
on  to  her  self-appointed  end. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  faintly,  "he — is  a  very 
dear  friend  indeed.  .  .  .  He  is  really — something 
more  than  just  a  friend." 

Kennedy  felt,  rather  than  understood,  how 
much  her  answer  meant.  A  sharp  little  pang, 
as  of  premonition,  darted  through  his  breast. 
For  a  second  he  studied  her  whitened  face,  his 
own  bronzed  cheek  slightly  paling. 

He  said,  a  little  hoarsely,  "He  isn't  a  fiance'?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Sylvia,  in  her  resolution, 
"I  came  all  the  way  from  Connecticut  to — to  be 
his  wife." 

"Oh,"  said  Allan. 

It  sounded  as  if  he  had  taken  a  blow  and  could 
say  no  more. 

She  felt  a  swift  -  born  regret  that  gave  her 
trouble.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  Allan  Kennedy 
could  really  have  made  himself  so  welcome  to 
her  heart,  so  nearly  loved,  yet  the  flutter  in  her 
bosom  was  the  language  of  love  that  was  be 
ginning  to  suffer.  He  had  been  so  generous, 
22 


WHEN  LOVE  AND  DUTY  MEET 

thoughtful,  kind.  He  almost  had  some  rights 
for  all  he  had  done  to  befriend  little  Dunny. 
Her  nature  conceded  him  rights  and  sympathies. 
She  knew,  however,  she  was  giving  him  more 
than  sympathy — that  her  nature  extended  him 
its  fellowship,  but  she  had  to  be  honest. 

"I  have  known  Mr.  Kirk  for  years,"  she  went 
on,  courageously.  "He  has  always  been  a 
friend  of  ours — before  my  mother  or  my  father 
died.  There  was  no  one  in  the  world  left  to  do 
such  noble  things  as  he  has  done,  and  he  sent 
me  the  money  to  come  back  West,  and  if  only 
the  train  could  have  gone  on  through — "  She 
paused.  She  had  been  about  to  add  a  cry  of 
what  the  fates  could  have  spared  herself  and 
Allan  Kennedy,  but  she  caught  herself  in  time. 

He  did  not  understand,  and  said,  "We  may 
not  be  very  much  longer  delayed."  He  thought 
she  was  eager  only  to  be  speeding  on  her  way 
and  greeting  Jerry  Kirk. 

For  a  second  an  impulse  nearly  betrayed  her 
into  making  an  indiscreet  admission;  then  she 
knew  how  much  wiser  and  safer  it  would  be  to 
avoid  complications.  The  dulling  look  in  Allan's 
eyes  and  the  obvious  blight  to  his  spirits  affected 
her  potently.  The  gulf  she  had  shown  him, 
between  his  life  and  hers,  abruptly  mocked  her 
happiness.  All  in  a  second  she  realized  that 
23 


DUNNY 

the  hold  he  had  upon  her  heart  was  strong  and 
infinitely  sweet. 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent.  For  lack  of 
something  more  commonplace  to  add,  she  said: 

"I  have  never  seen  Mr.  Kirk  in  my  life." 

"You — you  have  never  seen  him?"  he  echoed, 
as  if  he  feared  he  had  heard  her  wrongly. 

"No,"  she  answered;  "nothing  but  his  pict 
ure." 

Kennedy  looked  at  her  fixedly.  A  mad  hope 
was  flaring  in  his  thought.  So  many  things 
were  possible  where  two  human  beings,  engaged 
to  be  married  in  such  a  way  as  this,  had  never 
even  met! 

"Why  —  you  don't  say!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Bless  my  stars! — I'm  glad!" 

"You  are  glad?"  she  asked,  a  hot  flush 
streaming  upward  in  her  cheeks.  "But  why?" 

She  was  sorry  the  moment  the  question  had 
sped  from  her  lips.  The  swiftly  replying  con 
fession  in  his  eyes  was  almost  justified. 

"Because,"  he  said —  "because,  perhaps — 

"I  wish  you  would — go  and  look  for  Dunny," 
she  interrupted,  hurriedly.  "I  thought  he  meant 
to  come  right  back." 

In  his  sensitive  way  he  understood.  Yet  the 
untamed  element  of  hope  within  him,  having 
flashed  into  being,  was  not  to  be  extinguished. 
24 


WHEN   LOVE  AND   DUTY  MEET 

She  was  here,  at  least,  and  so  was  he,  and  Jerry 
Kirk  was  an  absent,  unknown  quantity. 

"I  think  I  know  where  to  find  the  little  man," 
he  said;  and  she  watched  him  striding  actively 
away. 


IV 


A  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

HE  morning  that  followed  brought  a 
new,  unpleasant  change  in  the  state 
of  affairs  aboard  the  snow-blockaded 
train.  The  coal  was  so  nearly  ex 
hausted  that  the  fires  could  be  burned 
in  the  stoves  but  two  hours  only  a 
day.  Breakfast  proved  the  merest  shadow  of 
a  meal.  Privation  had  come,  in  its  grim,  silent 
way;  suffering  prowled  like  a  wolf  near  at 
hand. 

That  Allan  Kennedy  had  heretofore  denied 
himself,  in  order  that  she  and  little  Dunny  might 
be  comforted  a  trifle  more,  Sylvia  knew  full 
well.  But  now  his  generosity  had  become  his 
habit.  She  could  not  compel  him  to  alter  his 
methods,  she  could  not  refuse  his  kindness, 
especially  where  Dunny  was  concerned,  and 
she  could  not  surprise  a  confession  of  Allan's 
own  hungry  plight  while  his  cheer  continued  so 
inexhaustible. 

26 


A  MAN    OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

This  sunlit  morning  he  was  out  again,  help 
ing  the  train-men  in  their  effort  to  shovel  back 
the  snow  that  had  heaped  anew  upon  the  track. 
Sylvia  walked  restlessly  up  and  down  the  car. 
Finally  a  lady,  sitting  by  a  window  that  com 
manded  a  view  of  miles  and  miles  of  the  great 
white  uprise,  halted  the  girl  in  her  pacing. 

"What  do  you  think  that  is,  that  little  dark 
object  coming  down  the  mountain  -  side  ?"  she 
asked,  as  she  pointed  up  the  gleaming  acclivity. 
"It  couldn't  be  a  bear?" 

Sylvia  looked  from  the  window,  beholding  a 
something,  no  larger  than  a  speck,  against  the 
white  immensity,  and  saw  that  it  certainly 
moved  with  considerable  rapidity  down  across 
the  steep  expanse  towards  themselves. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  can  be,"  she  said. 
"It  is  something  alive." 

For  a  moment  they  watched  in  silence.  The 
dot  of  black,  in  its  downward  course,  was  almost 
annihilating  space,  so  swiftly  did  it  dart  across 
a  field  of  ice  and  curve  about  the  hill  and  plunge 
again  down,  down,  on  the  smooth,  white  incrus 
tation  of  the  range. 

"It's  a  man!"  said  Sylvia,  suddenly.  "A 
man  on  snow-shoes!  See  them?  You  can  see 
the  two  dark  streaks  beneath  his  feet." 

From  end  to  end  of  the  car  the  word  was 
27 


DUNNY 

passed  along,  and  the  passengers  were  looking 
forth  in  wonder  and  interest.  Two  of  the  train 
crew,  just  outside,  were  staring  upward  at  the 
rapidly  descending  mountain  conqueror  guiding 
himself  with  a  pole  as  his  long,  slim  runners 
carried  him  in  meteoric  flight  athwart  the  snow. 

He  came  down  superbly.  Daring,  strength, 
and  reliance  on  his  own  great  brawn  and  nerve 
were  patent  to  all  in  the  stranger's  lone  transit 
of  the  mighty  distances.  It  could  presently  be 
seen  that  he  was  tall,  broad,  powerful  of  limb 
and  trunk — a  fitting  figure  for  a  spirit  of  the 
vast  Sierra.  And  he  bore  a  bundle  on  his  back. 

He  presently  disappeared  for  a  time  below 
the  crest  of  the  nearest  rise.  When  he  came 
once  more  into  view  he  was  less  than  a  pistol's- 
shot  away.  With  a  fine,  unconscious  exhibi 
tion  of  mastery  over  skis  and  slopes,  he  sped 
straight  down  the  last  declivity,  and  little 
Dunny  Weaver  ran  hotly  up  the  hill  to  give 
him  welcome. 

Sylvia's  gaze  had  been  transfixed.  The  some 
thing  in  her  nature  which  a  splendid  proof  of 
manhood  drew  to  the  uttermost  edge  of  her 
being  glowed  in  a  tingling,  involuntary  tribute 
to  the  prowess  of  the  mountaineer.  He  curved 
about  ort  the  slope,  his  long,  slender  skis  threw 
up  a  spray  of  snow,  and  he  came  to  a  halt  beside 
28 


A  MAN   OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

her  waiting  little  brother,  whom  he  spoke  to 
and  took  by  the  hand.  Then  Sylvia  noted  that 
the  man,  though  vigorous,  muscular,  and  rife 
with  spirit,  was  middle-aged  and  gray  of  hair, 
for  he  stood  with  his  cap  in  hand  and  was 
breathing  deeply. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  coat  of  sheep's  wool — 
closely  sheared  and  dyed  a  reddish-brown — a 
rough,  thick  pair  of  trousers — thrust  inside  his 
wrinkled  boots — and  the  seal-skin  cap  which  he 
now  adjusted  on  his  head.  His  face,  at  the 
distance,  bore  out  his  figure's  claim  to  rugged- 
ness  and  strength.  It  was  large  as  to  features, 
and  covered  with  a  thick,  short  growth  of 
grayish  beard. 

Even  witjh  the  stir  and  thrill  of  the  man's  swift 
glide  down  the  mountain  now  subsiding  in  her 
bosom,  Sylvia  continued  to  feel  the  deepest 
interest  in  all  that  the  traveller  was  doing.  She 
watched  him  kneel  on  the  snow  and  loosen  the 
straps  of  his  skis,  while  he  laughed  and  chatted 
with  the  quaint  little  Dunny,  who  was  trying  to 
assist. 

Something  there  was,  there  must  be,  in  the 
man's  personality  thus  to  appeal  to  the  little  chap 
so  promptly.  He  arose,  and,  kicking  off  the 
runners,  closed  his  fist  on  Dunny's  little  hand 
once  more  as  it  crept  within  his  palm.  Two 
29 


DUNNY 

or  three  train-men,  who  had  seen  his  arrival, 
climbed  up  on  the  snow-bank  where  he  was, 
and  he  presently  walked  with  the  group  tow 
ards  the  engines  and  was  no  longer  to  be  seen 
from  Sylvia's  window. 

She  thought  he  would  presently  appear  in 
the  car,  but  the  moments  passed  and  neither 
he  nor  Dunny  entered.  Back  to  her  seat  she 
went  again,  after  vaguely  discussing  who  and 
what  he  might  be,  and  whence  he  had  come, 
with  the  lady  whose  watchful  eyes  had  seen  him 
first  far  up  the  slope.  After  a  time  a  fellow- 
passenger  came  joyously  into  the  car  explain 
ing  that  the  snow-shoe  messenger  had  come  from 
a  town  across  the  range,  with  quantities  of  bread 
and  butter  and  forty  pounds  of  cold  roast-beef 
in  the  pack  he  had  strapped  to  his  shoulders. 

"How  splendid!"  said  Sylvia.  "Did  he  know 
the  train  was  blocked  in  the  snow?" 

"Yes;  they  got  the  news  two  days  ago  by 
telegraph,"  the  passenger  responded.  "He'll 
soon  be  coming  through  the  car." 

Yet  fifteen  minutes  more  went  by  before 
the  big,  broad  figure,  piloted  by  little  Dunny, 
loomed  in  the  doorway  of  the  Pullman. 

"That's  my  sister,  there!"  the  little  fellow 
cried,  in  his  winsome  way;  and  Sylvia  felt  her 
cheeks  abruptly  warm. 

30 


A  MAN   OF  THE   MOUNTAINS 

Her  self  -  composure  returned  at  once,  how 
ever,  when  she  looked  into  the  calm,  blue  eyes 
of  the  mountaineer.  A  face  more  friendly  and 
assuring  she  had  never  beheld.  It  was  fresh 
and  brown  of  complexion,  but  rough  of  outline, 
fairly  to  ruggedness.  She  knew  on  the  instant 
how  and  why  her  lively  little  brother  had  so 
quickly  bestowed  his  trust  and  chumship  on 
this  new  companion. 

"Sylvia,  this  is  the  snow-shoe  man!"  Dunny 
told  her,  eagerly.  "And  I'm  goin'  to  grow  up 
quick,  and  he's  goin'  to  show  me  how  to  ride  on 
sticks!" 

If  the  big,  stout  form  of  the  snow-shoe 
man  slightly  trembled,  if  his  face  became  a 
trifle  redder  as  he  took  the  pretty  hand  that 
Sylvia  extended,  she  did  not  observe  his  agi 
tation. 

"It  was  wonderful,  to  think  of  your  coming 
over  all  the  snow  to  bring  provisions  to  a  train- 
load  of  half-starving  people,"  she  said,  in  her 
honest  candor.  "I  don't  see  how  you  ever 
thought  of  doing  such  a  thing." 

The  mountaineer  was  a  little  abashed;  his 
modest  nature  had  been  tried  to  the  utmost  to 
endure  the  comments  of  the  grateful,  wondering 
passengers.  With  his  cap  in  his  hand  and  his 
bushy  shock  of  iron-gray  hair  all  rumpled  on 


DUNNY 

his  head,  he  seemed  a  very  stalwart,  hearty 
figure  of  manhood  to  be  so  confused. 

"It  was  just  a  romp,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  as 
large  and  hearty  as  himself.  "We  have  to  be 
boys  a  little  sometimes,  or  we  couldn't  be 
healthy  men." 

Sylvia  liked  the  modest  way  in  which  he 
spoke.  She  was  glad  such  men  abided  in  the 
West.  She  had  dreamed  of  big,  strong,  modern 
knights,  rough,  unpolished,  priceless  in  worth, 
living  out  here  in  the  mountains,  and  she  gloried 
in  the  promised  proof  that  her  estimate  of  West 
ern  men  was  not  an  idle  fancy. 

"How  far  did  you  come?"  she  inquired. 

He  answered,  "I  think  it's  maybe  sixty  miles, 
across  the  mountains,  from  Tamarack  to  here." 

"My  gee!"  said  little  Dunny,  in  childish 
amazement  and  admiration. 

Sylvia  was  suddenly  alert. 

"Tamarack?  Did  you  come  from  Tama 
rack?"  she  said. 

"That's  where  I  live,"  he  told  her,  smiling  in 
his  cordial  way. 

Her  heart  was  beating  rapidly  at  once. 

"We  are  going  there,"  she  said,  as  she  met 
his  gaze  in  her  frank,  straightforward  way. 
"Do  you  know  many  people  in  the  place?" 

"I  guess  I  know  nearly  every  one  there  who 
32 


A  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

doesn't  mind  letting  me  feel  acquainted,"  and 
he  laughed. 

Her  face  became  a  trifle  pale.  An  impulse 
swayed  her,  yet  for  a  moment  she  hesitated 
before  she  asked: 

"Do  you  know  a  Mr.  Kirk  in  Tamarack? — 
a  Mr.  Jerry  Kirk?" 

A  mischievous  twinkle  lighted  up  his  eyes. 

"I  reckon  I  do,"  said  he.  "Jerry  and  I  have 
been  lifelong  friends." 

Despite  her  utmost  efforts  at  self-control,  she 
was  trembling.  To  know  a  little  beforehand  of 
the  man  to  whom  she  was  travelling,  to  learn 
more  about  him  than  photograph  or  letters 
could  possibly  convey,  was  a  swiftly  born  temp 
tation  offered  by  the  presence  of  the  moun 
taineer.  There  could  be  no  harm;  the  snow- 
shoe  man,  in  his  middle  life  and  ripened  expe 
rience,  inspired  her  with  a  filial  trust,  as  a  father 
might  have  done. 

"Mr.  Kirk  is  the  only  one  we  know  in  all  this 
country,"  she  said.  "But  we've  never  seen 
even  him.  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  recog 
nize  him  from  his  photograph  or  not." 

The  mountaineer  was  a  trifle  sobered.  "I 
kind  o'  think  you  won't,"  he  said. 

"Why?  Has  he  changed  so  much  since  this 
picture  was  taken?"  She  had  hurriedly  drawn 
33 


DUNNY 

the  photograph  from  her  bag.  "That's  the  only 
likeness  I  have  ever  had.  Doesn't  he  look  like 
that?" 

The  big  man  took  the  card  in  hand.  For  a 
moment  he  gazed  at  it  gravely. 

"I'd  know  him  from  this  pretty  well,"  he 
answered,  a  certain  brightness  flashing  again  in 
his  eyes.  "But  he  don't  look  just  exactly  like 
this  picture  now." 

"Has  he  grown  a  beard?"  she  asked.  "Of 
course  that  changes  a  young  man  very  much 
indeed.  He's  young,  of  course  ? — that  is,  I  hope 
he  is  young,"  she  added,  eagerly.  "I  mean,  his 
picture  shows  he  is  young." 

The  mountaineer  looked  at  the  photograph  in 
silence  for  a  moment,  a  shade  of  gravity  passing 
again  across  his  face. 

"Did  he  never  tell  you  when  this  was  taken ?" 
he  inquired. 

"Oh,  it  must  have  been  taken  about  two  years 
or  so  ago,"  she  answered.  "I'd  be  disappointed 
if  he's  very  much —  How  old  should  you  think 
he  is,  yourself?" 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  him  swear  to  his 
age,"  he  said.  "But  his  heart  seems  to  feel 
pretty  young." 

"I  know  he  is  young,"  said  Sylvia,  manifestly 
voicing  her  dearest  wish.  "He  must  be  young; 
34 


A  MAN   OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  I  know  he  is  good.  His  hair  must  be  very 
dark,  as  you  can  see.  He  can't  be  over  thirty, 
I  am  sure." 

The  mountaineer  gave  back  the  picture.  The 
light  of  mirth  had  died  in  his  eyes.  Slowly  he 
took  little  Dunny  in  his  arms,  as  if  to  gratify  a 
spirit  of  hungering. 

"Someways  Jerry  Kirk  ain't  a  minute  older 
than  this  little  partner,"  he  said — "not  a  min 
ute." 

"I'm  goin'  to  git  older  right  away,"  announced 
the  bottled-up  Dunny,  excitedly.  "Snow-shoes 
beat  sleds  all  to  pieces!  Will  you  let  me  learn 
on  yours?" 

"Let  you  do  anything  you  want  to,"  answer 
ed  the  warm-hearted  man  of  the  mountains. 
"Have  you  folks  had  any  lunch?" 

Dunny  answered,  "Nope,"  in  childish  hon 
esty. 

"Come  on,  then.  You  and  I  will  go  and  fetch 
it  along,"  and  the  big  man  looked  at  Sylvia  just 
for  a  moment,  in  a  way  half  rapture,  half  yearn 
ing,  before  he  and  Dunny  departed. 

He  was  back  at  the  door  of  the  car  in  fifteen 
minutes.  There  the  mountaineer  came  abruptly 
to  a  halt.  During  his  absence  Allan  Kennedy 
had  come  to  the  Pullman  and  was  standing  at 
the  side  of  Sylvia. 

35 


DUNNY 

Some  little  talk,  no  less  sweet  because  she 
felt  it  was  almost  forbidden  by  her  conscience, 
she  had  listened  to  in  natural  delight.  She 
sat  there  now,  unaware  of  the  fact  that  the 
snow-shoe  man  had  returned.  Her  hand  lay  at 
rest  on  the  top  of  the  cushion,  with  Allan's  so 
close  their  fingers  almost  met. 

The  mountaineer  could  see  them  plainly. 
The  look  of  rapture  on  their  fresh  young  faces 
could  not  have  been  disguised,  though  Sylvia 
strove  with  all  her  sense  of  right  to  be  severe. 
Slowly  Allan's  hand  crept  along  the  cushion  till 
it  rested,  ever  so  lightly,  on  Sylvia's  fingers. 
She  did  not  take  her  hand  away;  she  could  not 
resist  the  coursing  happiness  that  surged  in  all 
her  being. 

Then  Dunny  came  running  in  at  the  door, 
behind  his  new-found  friend.  The  mountaineer 
came  walking  down  the  aisle,  and  the  spell  was 
suddenly  broken.  Sylvia  stood  up  abruptly, 
glowing  in  maidenly  confusion  that  richly  en 
hanced  her  beauty. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  car  a  brake- 
man  entered  brusquely,  hastening  through  the 
train. 

"News!"  he  called.  "The  rescue  gang  is 
coming  up !  They'll  be  here  some  time  to 
night!" 

36 


A  MAN   OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

The  mountaineer  had  turned  about  at  the 
sound  of  the  train-man's  voice.  The  man  was 
almost  upon  him. 

' ' Hullo ! ' '  the  brakeman  said.  "I'll  be  thump 
ed  if  it  ain't  Jerry  Kirk!" 


V 


A   FEAST   GOES   BEGGING 

MAZEMENT  and  utter  chagrin  ren 
dered  Sylvia  speechless.  She  knew 
not  what  to  think  or  what  to  do. 
In  mental  agitation  she  attempted  to 
recall  the  things  she  had  said  to  the 
snow-shoe  man  about  the  age  of  Jerry 
Kirk.  In  dread  and  mortification  she  swiftly 
wondered  how  much  he  had  seen  of  that  mo 
ment  of  her  happiness — her  folly — with  Allan 
Kennedy.  Ashamed,  self-accused,  and  shocked 
all  at  once,  not  only  to  have  been  so  discovered, 
but  also  to  find  that  Jerry  Kirk  was  a  man  of 
middle-age,  she  dared  not  look  him  in  the  face. 
Kennedy's  predicament  was  no  less  embar 
rassing  than  her  own.  He  felt  himself  in  a  glare 
of  light  he  could  not  readily  endure.  He  had 
known  he  was  trespassing,  known  he  had  no 
right  to  place  the  girl  in  such  a  position.  The 
brakeman's  blurted  truth  had  hit  him  like  a 
38 


A  FEAST  GOES   BEGGING 

bullet.     His  face,  as  well  as  Sylvia's,  was  hot 
with  his  feeling  of  guilt. 

It  was  Jerry  himself  who  relieved  the  painful 
tension.  He  purposely  detained  the  brakeman, 
shaking  his  hand  and  telling  him  briefly  of  his 
trip  across  the  snow,  till  he  knew  that  Sylvia, 
catching  at  her  wits,  could  rally  her  forces  to 
meet  the  situation. 

"I  knew  you'd  be  surprised,"  he  said,  when 
the  train-man  had  hastened  away.  "I  came 
across  the  hills  because  I  didn't  know  how  bad 
this  snow  blockade  was  going  to  be." 

Sylvia  knew  he  had  come  to  bring  comfort 
and  security  for  Dunny  and  herself.  Her  con 
science  smote  her  anew.  She  looked  into  his 
face  and  saw  that  the  light  in  his  eyes,  though 
apparently  merry,  was  masking  a  worry  and 
questioning  that  he  could  not  well  conceal. 

"It  was  very,  very  thoughtful,"  she  murmur 
ed.  "I — I  hope  you  will  let  me  introduce  Mr. 
Kennedy,  who  has  been  very  kind  to  Dunny 
and  me  on  the  trip." 

The  men  shook  hands.  It  was  still  an  awk 
ward  moment. 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  said 
Jerry  Kirk.  "Let's  all  sit  down  and  have  a 
little  lunch." 

There  was  something  reassuringly  direct  in 
39 


DUNNY 

Jerry's  manner.  His  feelings  had  never  been 
permitted  to  rise  for  long  to  the  surface;  they 
eddied  now  to  the  deeps  of  his  nature. 

The  constraint  of  the  younger  people  he  could 
not  entirely  banish,  however,  although  he  chat 
ted  with  Dunny  in  a  mood  as  unruffled,  to  all 
appearances,  as  that  of  the  frozen  world  itself. 

From  a  basket  fetched  in  his  pack  especially 
for  Dunny  and  Sylvia  he  brought  forth  dainties 
long  denied  to  all  the  snow-bound  passengers. 
Chickens,  jellies,  fruit,  and  even  cake,  in  addi 
tion  to  home-made  bread,  a  jar  of  salad,  and 
coffee,  tea,  and  sugar,  he  produced  from  art 
ful  layers,  packed  unmistakably  by  some  one 
accustomed  to  household  subtleties.  All  the 
thoughtfulness  and  care  of  this  was  as  plainly 
revealed  to  Sylvia  as  if  it  had  been  explained 
by  a  master  of  elocution. 

Dunny  alone,  however,  could  eat  in  a  natural 
way,  though  all  were  hungry.  Kennedy  felt  like 
a  traitor  at  the  feast ;  and  Sylvia's  peace  of  mind 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  return.  Big  Jerry  at 
tempted  to  set  an  example  of  philosophy  and 
cheer,  yet  they  barely  nibbled  at  the  appetizing 
spread,  where  embarrassment  had  come  to  sit 
like  an  uninvited  guest. 

When  Kennedy  presently  excused  himself 
and  went  to  another  car,  Kirk  felt  less  at  his 
40 


A  FEAST  GOES   BEGGING 

ease  than  before.  He  chatted  on  with  Dunny, 
in  his  reassuring  way,  but  he,  too,  at  length 
departed,  aware  that  Sylvia  would  be  grateful 
for  a  little  time  alone. 

He  went  outside  and  pretended,  even  to  him 
self,  that  he  was  looking  at  the  banks  of  snow 
ahead  of  the  great  locomotives  and  the  plough ; 
but  his  thoughts  were  engaged  with  problems 
nearer  home.  He  was  hurt  and  even  angry,  in 
a  way  that  eluded  precise  definition.  Little 
Dunny,  meeting  him  up  on  the  snow  and  reveal 
ing  the  fact  that  he  was  Sylvia's  brother,  had 
brought  him  a  joy  incalculable.  Then  Sylvia — 
far  more  beautiful,  more  sincere  and  womanly 
than  even  he  had  expected — come  to  the  West 
to  be  his  wife,  had  entered  the  wide-open  gates 
of  his  heart  and  taught  him  the  exaltation  of 
divine  regard.  He  had  hardly  known  how  to 
accept  the  truth  of  it  all;  and  in  the  midst  of 
this  had  come  that  conversation  about  himself, 
when,  for  a  moment,  he  had  kept  his  surprise 
in  reserve. 

It  was  this  that  had  first  halted  his  pleasure. 
He  was  a  man  of  more  than  middle-age — he  was 
forty-eight  —  and  she  was  barely  twenty.  She 
had  been  so  eager,  so  insisting,  in  her  girlish 
desire  to  have  her  promised  husband  young. 
It  had  worried  him  at  once  to  think  of  the  dis- 
4  41 


DUNNY 

appointment  she  would  be  certain  to  feel  when 
she  learned  the  truth ;  he  had  seen  that  she  was 
affected  unfavorably  when  the  brakeman  un 
covered  his  identity.  It  must  have  meant  a 
great  deal  more  to  her  than  he  had  ever  realized 
to  think  she  was  coming  to  a  man  no  older  than 
thirty. 

And  here  was  a  young  man  on  the  train.  At 
the  thought  of  Kennedy,  gifted  with  fine  ap 
pearance  and  robust  youth,  travelling  day  by 
day  with  Sylvia,  living  here  in  the  snow-bound 
train  at  her  side,  winning  his  way  to  her  heart 
with  his  graces,  Jerry's  anger,  resentment,  or 
perhaps  his  jealousy,  rose  in  his  being  despite 
all  his  efforts  at  judicial  reasoning. 

"There,  there,  there  —  take  it  slowly,"  said 
the  something  at  the  basis  of  his  steady  nature, 
but  he  could  not  immediately  heed  the  counsel. 

In  the  car,  meantime,  Sylvia's  mental  proc 
esses  were  quite  as  disturbed  as  Jerry's.  She 
looked  from  the  window  vacantly,  observing  the 
efforts  of  her  lively  little  brother  to  don  and 
propel  the  long,  slender  skis  that  Jerry  had  left 
in  the  snow,  but  her  mind's  attention  was  turned 
another  way. 

She  wondered  what  would  happen  next  and 
what  she  should  do.  She  had  come  all  this 
way  to  marry  Jerry  Kirk,  on  money  he  had 
42 


A   FEAST  GOES   BEGGING 

sent.  Had  it  not  been  for  him  she  could  never 
have  known  Allan  Kennedy.  Her  heart  was 
leaping  at  the  thought  of  Allan,  yet  she  knew 
what  honesty  and  right  demanded.  She  tried 
to  review  the  things  she  had  said  concerning 
her  hope  that  Jerry  was  young,  but  what  was 
the  use  ?  She  had  spoken  honestly,  and  not  to 
wound  the  feelings  of  any  one.  He  was  not 
young,  and,  despite  herself,  she  felt  disappointed, 
deeply,  and  could  not  avoid  the  half-confessed 
belief  that  her  first  emotion  towards  him — that 
of  friendship,  somewhat  filial  and  calm — would 
be  the  utmost  that  Jerry  would  ever  excite  in 
her  bosom. 

Once  more,  however,  she  thought  of  the  kind 
nesses  he  had  always  extended  to  them  all,  and 
now  of  his  long  and  hazardous  pilgrimage  across 
the  mountains  to  bring  them  cheer  and  com 
fort  in  this  wilderness  of  snow.  She  let  her 
gaze  come  to  a  focus  on  little  Dunny,  out  there 
playing  with  the  skis,  and  something  warm  and 
sweet  in  her  heart  responded  to  the  picture  of 
companionship  the  quaint  little  man  and  the 
big,  gray -haired  mountaineer  had  presented, 
hand  in  hand  there  together. 

From  her  pocket  she  drew  the  photograph  of 
Jerry.  At  least  for  this — taken  doubtless  more 
than  twenty  years  before,  when  youth,  with  all 
43 


DUNNY 

its  attributes  of  charm  had  been  upon  him — for 
this  she  could  feel  a  something  akin  to  love. 
She  kissed  the  picture,  and  her  nature  respond 
ed  with  a  balm  of  peace. 

Then,  finally,  Jerry  came  in  again,  smiling  in 
all  his  hardihood  of  philosophy.  He  seemed,  in 
some  way  of  his  own,  as  young  of  heart  as  any 
one  could  wish. 

Sylvia  rose  and  gave  him  her  hand  engag 
ingly. 

"Forgive  me — Jerry — for  the  things  I  said — 
before  I  knew,"  she  requested,  in  her  girlish 
sincerity.  "It  must  have  sounded — peculiar." 

Jerry's  heart  gave  a  great  big  bound. 

"Don't  say  a  word,"  he  answered,  pleased 
beyond  calculation  to  hear  her  speak  his  name. 
"It  was  fair  and  right,  and  I  want  you  not  to 
worry,  Sylvia.  I  want  you  to  get  all  settled  in 
Tamarack  and  used  to  things,  so  you  can  take 
your  time  to  think  before  you  make  up  your 
mind  we'll — go  ahead." 


VI 


A  WELCOME  TO  THE   EARTH 


The 


ARLY  in  the  evening  the  rescue  train, 
with  a  force  of  shovellers  full  five  hun 
dred  strong,  thundered  up  the  grade 
behind  the  waiting  cars,  and  the  men 
came  trooping  over  the  snow  to  be 
gin  their  delving  for  the  hidden  rails, 
darkness  soon  descended,  but  the  moon 


arose,  and  lanterns  by  the  score  were  lighted  in 
the  trenches  that  the  busy  shovels  cut. 

A  wonderful  scene  it  was,  in  all  that  mountain 
world  of  white,  resilvered  by  the  frozen  disk  of 
beauty  in  the  sky.  The  fires  were  glowing  in 
the  locomotive  furnaces  again  as  the  huge,  dark 
monsters  waited  there  to  move  once  more 
ahead.  Like  feverish  ants,  the  human  beings 
labored  in  the  Titan  heaps  of  snow,  their  dark 
forms  sharply  silhouetted  against  the  endless 
white  expanse.  In  groups,  in  pairs,  and  singly, 
all  the  time  in  motion,  always  swarming  and 
swarming  over  newer  fields  of  drift,  they  labored 
45 


DUNNY 

with  their  gleaming  implements,  the  drone  and 
murmur  of  their  conversation  punctuated  crisply 
by  the  clear,  metallic  ring  of  steel  on  steel  when 
shovels  met  in  the  fierce  assault  upon  the  snow. 

For  nearly  half  a  mile  the  column  dotted  out 
the  course  of  the  buried  rails,  the  farthest  men 
appearing  like  the  merest  specks  in  the  cold, 
white  gleam  of  lunar  light.  The  trenches  grew 
in  depth  and  length  with  amazing  rapidity. 
Great,  yawning  chasms  of  darkness  they  became 
as  the  army  of  toiling  human  ants  moved  on 
ward  and  onward  in  the  irresistible  march  of 
their  numbers.  Here  and  there  a  single  figure, 
like  a  straggler,  moved  about  alone,  presently 
to  join  his  fellows  as  before  and  make  a  unit  in 
the  swarming  horde  so  rapidly  channelling  the 
banks  that  had  baffled  steam  and  the  concen 
trated  bulk  of  the  steel  leviathans. 

Hour  after  hour  the  work  went  on,  and  the 
deepest,  longest  drift  on  the  rails  was  trenched 
till  it  looked  like  a  canon  cut  in  virgin  alabaster. 
Then,  some  time  in  the  night,  the  lusty  brag  of 
the  locomotives'  puffing  startled  the  mountain 
silence,  and  the  plough,  in  its  reinstated  tri 
umph,  hurled  what  remained  of  the  snow  from 
the  track  as  if  with  an  angered  animal's  resent 
ment. 

Swaying  and  creaking,  the  train  of  cars 
46 


A  WELCOME  TO  THE   EARTH 

assumed  the  monotonous  motion  of  speed,  and 
so  at  last  had  won  through  the  mighty  land  of 
snow. 

When  the  morning  sun  at  length  aroused  the 
passengers  to  life,  the  coaches  were  rolling 
through  a  timbered  country  where  the  snow 
had  been  melted  for  a  week  or  more,  and  the 
good,  dark  earth,  already  faintly  spread  with 
spring's  new  greenery,  gave  an  indescribable 
cheer  and  comfort  to  the  travellers  weary  of  a 
universe  of  white. 

To  Sylvia  the  sight  of  the  resurrected  world 
was  glorious.  Her  whole  nature-loving  self  was 
tingling  with  an  unsung  paean  of  response.  In 
the  midst  of  this  elation  the  porter  came  and 
told  her  that  Allan  Kennedy  had  wished  him  to 
say  good-bye  to  herself  and  little  Dunny  in  his 
stead.  He  had  been  obliged  to  leave  the  train 
at  his  station  very  early  in  the  morning,  at  an 
unexpected  hour,  when  no  one  would  have  wish 
ed  to  be  disturbed. 

Despite  her  good  judgment  in  the  matter,  a 
sharp  little  pang  shot  to  Sylvia's  heart.  But 
she  presently  looked  out  once  more  upon  the 
welcome  earth,  and  felt  that  she,  as  well  as  the 
land,  must  don  a  smile  in  answer  to  the  warm 
ing  sun.  Perhaps  it  was  better  she  had  not  been 
given  an  opportunity  to  bid  good-bye  to 
47 


DUNNY 

Allan,  after  all.  She  turned  her  thoughts  to 
Jerry  resolutely,  and  was  grateful  to  think  he 
had  summoned  her  out  of  the  East  to  the 
country  of  her  heart. 

Little  Dunny  awoke,  and  could  not  see 
enough  of  this  beautiful  region  of  forest.  The 
two  had  been  waiting  fully  half  an  hour  when 
Jerry  appeared  and  gave  them  greeting.  Sylvia 
looked  up  into  his  warm,  blue  eyes  as  she  had 
not  looked  before,  and  felt  anew  the  hold  he 
could  have  upon  her  heart  and  trust — in  the 
way  of  a  foster-parent. 

"We  can  get  our  breakfast  at  the  station 
where  we  change,"  he  said.  "We'll  be  there 
now  in  about  ten  minutes." 

Dunny  said,  "You  didn't  fergit  your  snow- 
shoes,  did  you,  Jerry?" 

"You  must  say  'Mr.  Kirk,'"  corrected  Sylvia, 
promptly. 

"I'd  rather  he  wouldn't,"  said  Jerry.  "  We're 
kind  of  pards."  He  added  to  Dunny,  "No;  I 
brought  the  sticks  along." 

"That's  good,"  said  the  small  man,  in  his 
quaintly  earnest  way ;  "  'cause  if  you  didn't  want 
them  any  more,  I'd  let  you  give  them  to  me." 

Jerry  gathered  him  into  his  arms  for  such  a 
hug  as  a  bear  might  give  in  a  moment  of  in 
finite  tenderness. 

48 


A  WELCOME   TO  THE   EARTH 

"Do  you  like  the  country?"  he  said  to  Sylvia. 

"I  love  it,"  she  answered — "I  love  it." 

He  was  deeply  affected,  for  the  land  to  him 
had  been  as  a  mother  and  a  home,  in  a  lonesome- 
ness  of  spirit  that  no  one  could  have  guessed. 

"I'm  glad,"  he  said.  Then  he  took  the  tiny 
woollen  things  that  Dunny  wore  and  put  them 
on  the  little  chap  in  pleasure  immeasurable. 

Sylvia  made  herself  ready  at  once,  glad  to 
think  of  escape  at  last  from  the  train,  while 
Dunny  ran  to  the  car  at  the  rear  to  kiss  his 
two  old  lady  friends  good-bye.  A  few  moments 
later  the  three  alighted  at  a  squat  brick  station, 
in  a  pretty  town,  where  a  branch  of  the  railroad 
had  its  terminus. 

Already  the  branch-line  train  was  standing 
ready  to  depart,  yet  it  waited  there  for  more 
than  half  an  hour.  During  this  time  the  break 
fast  was  eaten,  and  then  big  Jerry  and  his 
charges  were  whisked  away  to  Tamarack, 
nestled  in  the  hills  at  the  base  of  the  mighty 
Sierra. 


VII 


COMPLICATIONS  AGAIN   COMMENCE 


HE  alchemists  of  olden  times,  who 
wrought  to  manufacture  gold  from 
worthless  dross,  should  have  tried  a 
worthier  problem — to  fashion  human 
happiness  without  the  use  of  heart's 
content.  With  such  a  wealth  of  sun 
shine,  crystal  air,  and  breath  of  spring  as  little 
Tamarack  afforded,  the  task  should  not,  appar 
ently,  have  presented  many  problems,  yet  Syl 
via  Weaver,  glad  of  it  all,  and  eager  to  par 
take  of  nature's  mood,  was  out  of  tune  with 
everything.  She  loved  the  little  settlement, 
despite  the  fact  that  its  women-folk  were  few 
and  her  own  little  brother  was  the  only  child  in 
town;  nevertheless,  her  spirit  was  ill  at  ease. 

Tamarack  should  have  been  called  a  lumber- 
camp,  for  the  air  was  always  redolent  of  new- 
made  planks  and  beams,  that  came  here  from 
the  mountain  saw-mill  far  above  in  the  timber, 
while  its  commerce  was  exclusively  in  sawed-up 
5° 


COMPLICATIONS  AGAIN  COMMENCE 

trees.  The  piles  of  lumber  were  as  large  as 
many  of  the  houses.  They  occupied  a  site  that 
was  twice  as  extensive  as  the  town  itself.  And 
built  through  three  long  ' '  streets ' '  of  the  ' '  yard ' ' 
where  the  timber  structures  stood  were  three 
divisions  of  the  wonderful  flume  in  which  every 
stick,  large  or  small,  had  come  floating  down 
from  the  camps  above  in  a  swift  and  powerful 
current  of  water. 

Tamarack  lived  for  the  flume  and  by  means 
of  the  flume  that  ended  here,  where  the  railroad 
cars  could  be  loaded,  day  by  day,  with  wood, 
planks,  boards,  and  monster  timbers  for  the 
mines.  The  town  was  a  small  collection  of 
cabins  and  cottages,  plus  the  shanties  occupied 
by  a  horde  of  Chinese  laborers.  There  were 
railroad  hands,  store-keepers,  hay-yard  owners, 
and  bosses  in  the  population.  There  were  four 
married  women  and  one  unmarried  young  wom 
an  in  the  place,  all  of  whom  nature  had  appar 
ently  destined  for  unattractive  old  maids — and 
the  destinies  had  all  been  ignored. 

The  situation  of  the  town  was  charming. 
Not  only  did  the  first  ray  of  morning  sunshine 
speed  unobstructed  to  its  slope,  but  the  winds 
from  the  snow-fields  of  the  range  leaped  over  it 
entirely,  sheltered  as  it  was  against  the  hill. 
Far  away  eastward  a  number  of  ranches  lent 


DUNNY 

their  level  beauty  to  the  sage-brush  valley. 
Beyond  them  were  mountains,  barren  of  trees, 
covered  with  short,  gray  brush,  but  carved  out 
of  adamant  in  awe-inspiring  majesty. 

From  the  very  back  door  of  Tamarack  the 
Western  mountains  rose  in  tremendous  upheav 
als,  broken  by  a  splendid  canon.  From  this  great 
range  the  largest  trees  had  been  cut,  but  the 
young,  new  growth  was  thick,  while  every  deep 
ravine  was  thickly  grown  with  alders,  willows, 
quaking  aspen,  and  the  rich,  dark-green  manza- 
nita.  Scored  across  the  base  of  the  hills  lay 
the  flume,  its  slender  length  now  level  with  the 
earth,  now  bridging  a  chasm  on  trestles  appar 
ently  as  frail  as  the  web  of  a  spider. 

For  three  weeks  the  pilgrims  from  the  East 
had  been  in  Tamarack,  and  Sylvia  found  her 
self  still  unacquainted  with  her  heart.  She  and 
Dunny  were  boarding  with  a  Mrs.  Hank,  to 
whom  Jerry  Kirk  had  taken  them  at  once  upon 
their  arrival.  The  landlady  was  a  busy,  talka 
tive,  good-hearted  woman  whose  husband  bossed 
a  gang  of  Chinese  laborers.  She  made  her  little 
cottage  very  homelike  to  her  visitors,  and  Dun 
ny  was  particularly  happy  there,  with  two  sick 
chickens,  a  new-born  calf,  a  wobbly  kitten,  and 
the  promise  of  a  pup. 

Sylvia,  however,  could  not  find  her  adjust- 
52 


COMPLICATIONS  AGAIN  COMMENCE 

ment.  She  was  worried.  At  times  she  tried  to 
think  she  was  homesick,  yet  she  knew  her  ail 
ment  was  deeper,  nearer  at  hand,  and  far  less 
readily  curable.  Jerry,  as  good  as  his  word, 
was  giving  her  time  in  which  to  think  it  over. 
He  had  said  not  a  word  concerning  their  mar 
riage.  He  was  simply  supplying  all  their  needs, 
with  the  same  thoughtful  kindness  he  had  shown 
on  the  trip  through  the  snow,  while  he  waited 
for  the  strangeness  of  the  place  and  himself  to 
wear  away. 

She  liked  him  very  much  indeed,  but,  strive 
as  she  might,  she  could  not  warm  her  heart  to 
love.  She  felt  that  something  needful  to  the 
process  was  gone.  Chiding  herself  for  such  an 
admission  and  attempting  to  drive  away  the 
thoughts  of  Allan  Kennedy,  she  nevertheless 
felt  spring  itself  in  her  being  whenever  she  re 
called  that  wonderful,  breath-taking  thrill  that 
had  come  at  the  contact  of  her  hand  with  Allan's. 

Loyalty  she  had,  and  faithfulness,  and  pure 
unselfishness.  Had  Jerry  asked  her  two  days 
after  the  coming  to  Tamarack,  she  would  cer 
tainly  have  permitted  him  to  make  her  his  wife ; 
but  now — he  had  given  her  quite  too  much  time 
in  which  to  think,  and  every  day  of  delay  was 
pushing  thoughts  of  a  possible  wedding  further 
and  further  from  her  nature. 
53 


DUNNY 

It  cost  her  many  a  sleepless  night,  this  worry 
and  self-accusation.  What  the  right  demanded, 
for  Jerry  and  herself,  she  could  not  determine. 
Jerry  had  just  been  gone  two  days,  to  see 
his  partner,  Asa  Craig,  at  Millsite,  fifteen  miles 
away,  where  the  flume  received  the  lumber  to 
be  floated  down  to  Tamarack.  The  day  was 
delightfully  warm  and  balmy.  To  remain  in 
doors  was  impossible. 

Sylvia  knew  next  to  nothing  of  the  place. 
She  had  been  to  the  post-office  once  with  Mrs. 
Hank,  and  since  that  day  she  had  been  off  alone 
in  the  woods  on  three  occasions,  but  this  was 
all.  A  few  of  the  unmarried  men  of  the  place 
had  come  to  call  at  the  house,  some  of  them 
several  times,  but  she  never  even  suspected  that 
they  had  come  there  because  of  her  presence. 
Indeed,  she  was  innocent  of  any  knowledge  of 
the  vigorous,  if  limited,  stir  she  had  made  in  the 
camp,  with  her  friendly  ways,  her  radiant  beauty, 
and  her  unaffected  sweetness  towards  her  small, 
quaint  bit  of  a  brother. 

To-day  little  Dunny  was  playing  in  the  yard 
with  the  new-born  calf,  that  delighted  in  suck 
ing  his  fingers.  Sylvia  put  on  her  red  worsted 
cap  and  went  out  alone.  Despite  the  vague, 
unsettled  worry  in  her  mind,  her  spirit  was 
buoyantly  joyous  in  the  freshness  of  the  season. 
54 


COMPLICATIONS  AGAIN  COMMENCE 

She  could  feel  that  the  earth  was  pulsing  in  its 
new  awakening.  The  song  of  a  bird  in  a  pine- 
tree  made  her  heart  race  quickly  to  be  up  with 
his  happiness. 

All  the  way  to  the  post-office  the  promise  of 
summer  attended  her  steps,  and  all  her  nature 
swelled  with  welcome  to  the  tender  greenery 
starting  on  its  errand  of  existence. 

To  her  great  surprise  she  found  a  couple  of 
letters  at  the  office  addressed  to  herself.  The 
one  she  opened  first  was  from  Jerry. 

"These  days  are  getting  the  best  of  me,"  she 
read,  a  little  down  the  page.  "I'm  too  full  of 
happiness  to  hold.  Can't  keep  it  down.  It's 
thinking  of  you,  Sylvia,  that  brings  this  feel 
ing  and  gives  it  the  upper  -  hand  of  a  fellow. 
So  I'm  going  to  be  down  in  camp  in  the 
afternoon  to-morrow,  and  —  let's  have  a 
talk." 

Her  heart  was  dully  beating  as  she  raised  her 
eyes  from  the  sheet.  She  had  known  that  some 
such  thing  as  this  must  be  coming  soon,  but  it 
startled  her  nevertheless.  She  could  not  clearly 
think,  as  she  walked  on  her  way,  and  therefore 
she  tore  the  second  letter  open,  by  way  of 
refuge  for  the  moment. 

The  writing  was  new  to  her  ken.  The  letter 
began,  "Dear  Miss  Weaver."  She  looked  at 
55 


DUNNY 

the  end  before  she  went  any  further.  It  was 
signed,  "Sincerely  yours,  Allan  Kennedy." 

A  flush  streamed  at  once  to  her  cheeks.  Her 
pulses  leaped  in  excitement.  With  her  breath 
coming  fast,  she  read  the  communication  through. 

"I've  had  a  little  piece  of  luck,"  the  lines 
informed  her,  "for  a  Mr.  Asa  Craig  has  offered 
me  a  better  situation — nearer  Tamarack." 

There  she  paused,  for  the  tumult  of  feeling 
in  her  bosom  had  suddenly  increased  as  she 
read  those  last  two  words,  "nearer  Tamarack." 
Half  guiltily,  all  happily,  she  continued  the  read 
ing,  her  eyes  fairly  hungry  for  the  sentences. 

"I  shall  be  located  at  Millsite,  overseeing  a 
portion  of  the  work  on  the  flume,  and  that  is 
only  fifteen  miles  away.  I'm  going  to  start 
from  here  at  once,  and  so  shall  be  in  Tamarack 
on  Wednesday  afternoon,  and  shall  hope  to  see 
you  and  my  little  Dunny  as  I'm  passing  through. 
Give  little  Dunny  my  love." 

For  several  minutes  she  was  unaware  of  the 
full  significance  involved  in  the  simple  arrival 
of  these  two  letters.  She  was  wondering,  swift 
ly,  almost  in  fear,  what  Jerry  would  say  and 
what  she  would  reply  when  he  should  presently 
arrive  to  talk  things  over.  And  then,  abrupt 
ly,  she  realized  that  Allan's  hour  was  also  fairly 
upon  her— that  this  was  Wednesday  afternoon! 
56 


VIII 
A  GREENWOOD   MEETING 

HE  day  was  more  than  half  respon 
sible  for  certain  mad  delights  in 
Sylvia's  being,  yet  she  took  all  the 
blame  on  herself.  And,  indeed,  there 
was  far  more  of  spring's  uncertainty 
in  her  heart  than  there  was  in  the 
sweet,  warm  trend  of  the  season.  Dread,  as 
much  as  happiness,  had  possession  of  her  nature. 
She  felt  herself  in  a  turmoil  of  conflicting  emo 
tions.  Everything  ungovernable  in  her  being 
rejoiced  at  the  thought  of  Allan's  nearness,  just 
as  everything  loyal  and  honest  in  her  mind 
spoke  warningly  for  Jerry  Kirk. 

She  could  not  see  how  it  would  be  possible 
to  meet  either  Jerry  or  Allan  this  afternoon. 
Her  mind  was  not  decided  absolutely  as  to  the 
wisdom  and  right  of  her  becoming  Mrs.  Kirk, 
yet  how  could  she  think  of  anything  else,  even 
though  Allan  should  happen  to  be  passing 
through  the  town?  She  feared  the  unknown 
s  57 


DUNNY 

things  that  might  occur,  with  Allan  coming, 
just  as  she  dreaded  the  promise  she  might  be 
led  to  make  in  a  talk  with  big,  warm-hearted 
Jerry.  Underneath  it  all  her  inmost  self  was 
strangely  glad,  excited,  and  irrepressible.  She 
felt  like  singing,  laughing,  giving  herself  com 
pletely  over  to  the  mood  of  the  day. 

How  soon  might  Jerry  —  or  Allan  —  be  com 
ing  ?  She  could  not  tell.  She  only  knew  that  she 
ought  not  to  meet  the  one  and  did  not  wish,  just 
yet,  to  see  the  other.  Almost  before  she  knew 
her  own  process  of  reasoning  she  determined 
not  to  wait  at  home  for  either  one.  The  town 
was  apparently  deserted.  No  one  need  see  her 
flee  to  the  woods  of  the  great  ravine. 

She  sped  away  like  a  doe,  light  of  foot  and 
unconsciously  graceful.  In  the  canon,  where 
she  knew  her  way  from  previous  visits,  the 
aspens,  alders,  and  willows  were  budded  fra 
grantly,  with  leaves  about  to  burst  into  being. 
The  brook  was  boisterously  practising  a  song 
that  later  would  be  softened.  Through  the 
pines  the  sunshine  was  streaming  in  a  way  of 
peace  and  silence  bequeathed  to  every  wood 
land  grove  from  the  ancient  Garden  of  Eden. 

An  ecstasy  came  upon  Sylvia,  walking  here, 
her  sweet,  young  face  uplifted  to  the  sky.  In 
sheer  despair  of  containing  her  emotions,  she 
58 


A  GREENWOOD  MEETING 

threw  her  arms  about  the  great,  rough  trunk  of 
a  pine-tree  and  laid  her  cheek  against  the  bark. 
The  notes  of  birds,  new  stirred  to  thoughts  of 
mating,  quickened  the  mystic  pleasure  in  her 
nature. 

How  long  she  stood  there,  happy  and  ques 
tioning,  how  long  she  afterwards  sat  on  a  fallen 
log,  listening  intently  to  the  talk  of  the  hurry 
ing  stream  of  water,  she  could  not  have  told. 
But  at  last  she  felt  a  subtle  something  near 
at  hand,  quietly  invading  all  her  precious  inner 
sanctuaries. 

Half  startled,  she  raised  her  head  and  looked 
around.  There,  partially  concealed  by  an  as 
pen-tree,  stood  Allan  Kennedy.  His  hat  was  off, 
the  sun  was  shining  down  upon  the  wavy  rich 
ness  of  his  hair.  A  light  of  love  was  shining  in 
his  eyes.  How  splendidly  tall  and  young  and 
active  he  seemed,  here  in  this  natural  environ 
ment!  What  a  proud,  strong,  manly  figure  he 
presented  as  he  came  towards  her  joyously! 

She  could  not  have  kept  back  the  glad  little 
note  of  surprise  and  welcome  that  came  so 
abruptly  to  her  lips,  but  she  tried  to  assume  a 
calm  severity  utterly  foreign  to  her  every  emo 
tion. 

"Why — why — how  did  you  come  here,  Mr. 
Kennedy?"  she  said. 

59 


DUNNY 

"How  did  I  find  you,  do  you  mean?"  he 
replied.  "Don't  you  know  I'd  have  come  here 
blindfolded,  just  the  same,  if  you — under  the 
circumstances —  ?" 

She  was  blushing  rosily.  Her  heart  was  dan 
cing  in  happiness  beyond  her  control. 

"But — don't  you  see  I  didn't  want —  '  she 
stammered,  and  there  she  paused. 

"Didn't  you  wish  to  see  me  ?  Had  you  really 
run  away?"  he  asked.  "Didn't  you  get  my 
letter?" 

She  nodded.  He  was  standing  so  close  and 
looking  so  intently  into  her  eyes  that  she  could 
not  meet  his  gaze. 

"Didn't  you  wish  to  see  me?"  he  repeated. 

She  could  not  answer,  for  neither  "Yes"  nor 
"No"  would  convey  the  truth  to  his  under 
standing. 

Once  more  he  insisted,  "Didn't  you,  Sylvia?" 

"Don't!"  she  said,  in  a  sudden  tumult  of  ex 
citement  and  alarm  at  herself  as  he  spoke  her 
name.  "Don't — call  me  that.  I  haven't  any 
right  to  listen — to  see  you — or  anything." 

"Not  even  the  right  of  wanting  to?"  he  asked 
her,  softly. 

"That  isn't  a  right,"  she  answered.  "That 
can't  be  helped." 

The  fire  and  wine  of  love  surged  instantly  into 
60 


A  GREENWOOD  MEETING 

his  veins.  Had  confession  that  she  loved  him 
burst  in  a  flood  from  her  lips  he  could  hardly 
have  understood  more  cogently,  more  quickly, 
all  that  her  unguarded  answer  had  revealed. 
He  saw  that  she  realized  what  she  had  done; 
he  interrupted  what  she  might  have  added. 

"That's  almost  enough,"  he  said.  "I  oughtn't 
to  ask  for  more.  If  you  can't  help  wanting  to 
see  me,  then — " 

"But  I  can!  I  must!"  she  interrupted. 
"Please  don't — look  like  that,  or  talk — like 
that,  any  more,  Mr.  Kennedy." 

"What  shall  I  do?"  he  inquired.  "I  can't 
help  being 'happy  —  glad  to  see  you,  Sylvia. 
How  are  you,  anyway  ?  How  have  you 
been?" 

"Quite  well,"  she  answered. 

"I  have  thought  about  you  both,"  he  con 
fessed — "all  the  time.  I  didn't  get  a  chance  to 
say  good-bye  that  morning  on  the  train." 

She  looked  up  at  him  once,  and  down  again 
instantly. 

"No,"  she  murmured. 

Why  would  her  heart  persist  in  beating  so 
madly  ?  For  lack  of  a  topic  on  which  she  dared 
to  venture,  she  added: 

"Do  you  like  your  new  position?" 

"I  don't  know  much  about  the  position,"  he 
61 


DUNNY 

replied,  "but  I  like  my  new  location.  I  can 
come  down  to  Tamarack  so  easily." 

"But — I  hope  you  won't!"  she  said,  in  sudden 
despair  of  resisting  continuous  temptation.  "I 
don't  think  you  ought  to  stay  here  now." 

He  was  half  hurt,  half  exultant.  She  cared. 
She  was  striving  to  be  loyal  to  a  promise  at  war 
with  the  wishes  of  her  heart.  He  knew  this — 
felt  it — and,  lover-like,  extracted  honeyed  soph 
istry  from  the  plight  to  sweeten  his  own  pre 
dicament. 

"I  may  not  get  a  chance  to  come  so  very 
often,"  he  told  her,  quietly.  "Besides — I  might 
not  be  welcome  here  in  Tamarack." 

She  made  no  reply.  She  could  think  of  noth 
ing  she  ought  to  say. 

He  added,  in  a  moment,  "Sylvia,  do  you  wish 
me  to  leave  you  now,  and  go?" 

She  wished  for  nothing  of  the  sort.  She  was 
helplessly  joyous  in  his  presence,  in  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  in  the  touch  of  his  shadow,  falling  on 
her  dress  and  on  her  hand.  That  the  day  was 
stirring  her  nature  and  his,  just  as  it  quickened 
the  bosom  of  the  earth,  she  knew  by  more  than 
intuition.  Yet  she  dared  not  tell  him  she  wished 
him  to  stay,  nor  yet  how  welcome  he  must 
always  be.  Resolutely  she  nodded  her  head. 

"You — you  really  wish  me  to  go?"  he  repeated. 
62 


A  GREENWOOD   MEETING 

She  nodded  again  as  she  slowly  picked  an 
alder  bud  to  pieces  in  her  fingers. 

"But,"  he  insisted,  "I  haven't  seen  little 
Dunny." 

"If  you  came  to  see  Dunny — "  she  started. 

"I  didn't,"  he  quickly  confessed.  "I  came 
to  see — 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  didn't  come  for  that,  then 
you  tried  to  work  on  my  sympathies,"  she  inter 
posed,  glad  of  a  subject  that  permitted  a  grasp 
on  her  self-control. 

"I  sent  the  little  chap  my  love,"  he  answered, 
in  ready  irrelevance,  and  the  sound  of  the  word 
on  his  lips  was  fairly  intoxicating  to  her  senses. 
"Did  you  give  him  that?"  he  inquired. 

She  was  blushing  confusedly  again  as  she  shook 
her  head, 

"No?  Then  you've  got  it  still,"  he  said, 
daringly. 

"It's  in  the  letter,"  she  replied,  in  quick 
defence.  "I  never — took  it  out." 

He  said,  "Oh."  Then  he  presently  added, 
"But  you  don't  really  wish  me  to  go?" 

"Yes  —  I  do,"  she  answered,  slowly.  "I 
must." 

"But,  Sylvia — why?" 

"Please  don't  talk  about  it  any  more,"  she 
begged,  in  an  earnestness  he  knew  he  must  re- 
63 


DUNNY 

spect.  "You  know  we — I — haven't  any  right. 
It  isn't  fair." 

He  felt  that  the  chasm  between  them,  all  but 
forgotten  for  the  moment,  was  widening  anew. 
He  wished  to  be  honest,  to  be  fair  to  Jerry  Kirk, 
to  Sylvia,  and  to  himself.  The  sunshine,  the 
gladness  of  the  season,  the  awakening  of  nature, 
making  ready  for  the  days  of  sensuous  summer 
— all  of  this  had  carried  him  along  in  its  current 
of  boundless  delight. 

"I  couldn't  help  wanting  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"I  tried  to  keep  away." 

Her  sympathy  leaped  to  him  instantly.  His 
confession  played  upon  her  nature.  How  much 
she  loved  him  she  was  rapidly  beginning  to 
understand.  But  she  dared  not  let  him  know. 
It  was  dreadful,  all  of  it,  with  Jerry  perhaps 
even  now  expecting  her  home,  or  looking  to 
find  her,  in  his  honest  faith  that  all  was  well. 

"Perhaps  you  can  come  to  see  us — later  on," 
she  said,  faintly. 

He  looked  at  her  a  little  wildly. 

"You  and  Mr.  Kirk?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  she  cried,  from  her  inner 
most  doubt  and  conflict  of  emotions.  "Please 
don't  ask  me  any  more — and  please  don't  stay 
any  longer." 

-'I won't, "he answered, huskily.  "Good-bye." 
64 


A  GREENWOOD  MEETING 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  she  placed  her  own 
within  it.  This  much  she  could  not  deny  her 
self — or  him.  For  a  moment  her  gaze  met  his 
in  its  fearless  way.  He  knew  she  loved  him, 
and  that,  at  least,  was  something.  But  he  went 
at  once.  She  watched  him  till  the  trees  con 
cealed  him  from  sight,  then  slowly  she  started 
down  the  slope  to  the  town. 


IX 
JERRY    IS  ANGERED 

ERRY  met  her  coming  down  the  hill. 
How  big,  how  firmly  settled  in  his 
strength  he  appeared  as  he  came 
towards  her  in  his  hearty,  honest  way! 
She  caught  her  breath,  in  a  startled 
mood,  thus  to  find  him  so  near  at 
hand  and  to  know  by  what  a  narrow  margin  he 
had  missed  beholding  her  meeting  with  Allan 
Kennedy. 

He  was  smiling  in  his  pleasure  at  the  pict 
ure  of  beauty  she  presented  as  she  came  down 
the  trail  in  her  dainty,  light-green  frock,  yet  a 
dark  little  frown  of  trouble  remained  upon  his 
brow. 

"Here  you  are.  I  thought  you'd  be  out-of- 
doors  to-day,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad  you  like  the 
woods  and  mountains."  He  took  her  hands 
in  a  demonstration  of  rapture  heretofore  held 
stoutly  in  check. 

The  spring  was  playing  pranks  with  him  as 
66 


JERRY   IS  ANGERED 

with  all  the  creatures  capable  of  feeling.     He 
added,  "Were  you  up  there  in  the  trees?" 

She  tried  to  answer  to  his  happiness  with 
smiles,  but  her  heart  was  timidly  climbing  some 
where  on  the  trail  to  Millsite,  in  company  with 
Allan. 

"I — couldn't  stay  in,"  she  said.  "I  didn't — 
expect  you  quite  so  soon." 

"I  hurried  all  I  could,"  he  told  her,  looking 
into  her  face  with  a  new  sort  of  excitement  in 
his  being.  "Felt  as  if  I  couldn't  wait.  Let's 
go  back  up  there  among  the  trees." 

"Oh  — oh  no,"  she  answered,  hastily,  the 
thought  of  such  a  thing  peculiarly  repellent  since 
her  meeting  there  with  Allan.  "The  shade — the 
shade  is  beginning  to  be  cool." 

"All  right,"  he  answered.  "But  I  like  to  be 
surrounded  by  trees.  I  sort  of  feel  I'm  at  home 
with  the  family  folks." 

"Yes— I  know,"  she  faltered.  "How  did  you 
find  things  up  on  the  flume?" 

His  brow  resumed  a  certain  darkness  of  ex 
pression. 

"Not  exactly  what  I  like,"  he  replied.  "But 
I  think  there  won't  be  any  trouble." 

"Does  it  seem  as  if  there  might  be  trouble?" 
she  asked,  in  genuine  concern  for  his  welfare. 
"I  hope  not,  Jerry,  I'm  sure." 
6? 


DUNNY 

He  was  smiling  again,  in  his  happiness  that 
always  came  when  she  called  him  "Jerry." 

"With  you  and  little  Dunny  here  in  Tama 
rack,  trouble  has  to  hunt  for  some  one  else  when 
it  comes  in  at  dark  to  go  to  roost,"  he  replied. 
"But  my  partner,  Craig,  up  at  Millsite,  seems 
to  be  changing.  He'd  be  a  little  hard  if  he  got 
the  chance.  He'd  help  a  mortgage  or  two  of 
mine  to  eat  me  up,  and  that  would  make  him 
pretty  nearly  boss  —  sole  owner  of  it  all  —  but 
I've  shown  him  I  still  hold  the  balance  of  power, 
and  doubtless  we'll  go  on  in  peace." 

"I'm  sorry  you've  had  such  a  worry,"  she 
said,  in  her  honest  way,  and  contrition  was 
coming  swiftly  in  her  heart. 

They  were  walking  slowly  towards  the  town, 
but,  on  coming  to  a  pine-tree  at  the  base  of 
which  some  one  had  fastened  a  seat,  Jerry 
halted. 

"Let's  try  it  here  and  drop  the  talk  of 
troubles,"  he  said.  "It  looks  like  a  comfortable 
seat." 

"You  sit  down,"  she  answered.  "I've  been 
sitting  down  all  day.  Did  you  say  your  part 
ner's  name  is  Craig?"  She  knew  it  was,  but 
she  wished  to  avoid  any  intimate  subject. 

Jerry  took  the  seat  at  her  bidding.  He 
tossed  off  his  hat  and  ran  his  big,  blunt  fingers 
68 


JERRY   IS  ANGERED 

through  the  shocks  of  his  iron-gray  hair.  A 
ruddy  glow  of  health  was  on  his  countenance; 
his  eyes  were  bright. 

"My  partner's  name?  Yes,  Asa  Craig,"  he 
answered.  "Why  did  you  care  to  know?" 

"Oh — just  in  natural  interest,"  she  answered, 
reddening.  "I  wondered  —  that's  all."  As  a 
matter  of  fact  she  could  not  remember  where 
she  had  seen  or  heard  the  name  very  recently. 
"Asa  Craig,"  she  repeated.  "It  sounds  almost 
familiar."  Then  she  suddenly  remembered  it 
was  Allan's  letter  in  which  the  name  appeared 
in  writing,  and  her  cheeks  were  reddened  anew. 

"Everybody  knows  him  in  Tamarack,"  said 
Jerry.  "And,  by -the -way,  he  has  hired  a 
friend  of  yours  to  work  at  the  summit — that 
young  Mr.  Kennedy  you  introduced  me  to  on 
the  train." 

"Oh,"  said  Sylvia,  suddenly  bending  down  to 
hide  her  face  and  pretending  to  dust  off  her  skirt. 
"I  hope  he  will  prove  to  be  a  valuable  man." 

"Yes,  so  do  I,"  answered  Jerry,  generously. 
"But  we're  talking  nothing  but  business  all  the 
time." 

Sylvia  said,  "It's  very  interesting."  Her 
voice  was  a  trifle  weak;  her  heart  would  not  re 
sume  its  normal  beating,  and  her  cheeks  were 
pale  again. 

69 


DUNNY 

"But  I  wanted  to  talk  of  something  else," 
said  Jerry,  who  was  suddenly  trembling.  "It 
isn't  too  soon — by  now — is  it,  Sylvia?" 

"We — haven't  known  each  other — very  long," 
she  replied,  catching  at  the  straw  he  had  fur 
nished  unwittingly. 

"Not  this  way,"  he  agreed,  a  little  huskily. 
"But — there  were  all  our  letters." 

She  looked  for  a  moment  into  his  eyes.  How 
warm  and  honest  was  their  blue!  What  a  good, 
strong  face  he  had!  It  was  ripened,  not  aged, 
with  his  years.  Had  he  only  been  a  father — 
what  a  broad  and  kindly  breast  would  his  have 
been  to  weep  upon  in  refuge  from  the  world! 
But  she  could  claim  no  rights  to  this,  nor  could 
she  give  him  the  something  already  gone  from 
her  heart.  In  her  woman's  manner  she  knew 
of  nothing  to  seek  save  more  delay,  more  tem 
porizing  with  the  fates. 

"We — -haven't  been  really  acquainted,"  she 
repeated,  remembering  swiftly  and  guiltily  how 
brief  had  been  her  friendship  with  Allan.  "We 
couldn't  help  feeling  just  a  little  strange." 

In  this  she  spoke  the  truth,  for  she  felt  she 
did  not,  could,  not,  know  this  mountaineer,  so 
far  ahead  of  herself  in  years. 

"I  haven't  felt  strange  for  a  minute,"  he  an 
swered.  "You  took  your  father's  place,  and 
70 


JERRY   IS  ANGERED 

more,  in  here  the  minute  I  saw  you  on  the 
cars,"  and  he  nudged  himself  rudely  above  the 
heart.  "I  felt  as  if  I'd  known  you  and — loved 
you,  Sylvia,  all  my  life." 

She  could  make  no  reply,  and  he  continued: 

"But  if  you  feel  strange — and  want  to  get 
better  acquainted,  why  that's  all  right — you 
take  your  time.  Only — about  how  long  would 
you  like  me  to  wait?" 

"To  wait?"  she  echoed,  trying  to  gain  anoth 
er  moment  in  which  to  think. 

"Yes,  to  wait  before  I  speak  of  this  again. 
Two  weeks?" 

She  could  not  answer. 

"A  month?"  he  added. 

"I — should  think — in  a  month,"  she  faltered, 
in  a  voice  no  less  sweet  for  its  faintness.  "If — 
you  could." 

"Oh,  I  can  wait,  if  you  want  it,  Sylvia,"  said 
he,  in  his  way  of  affection  and  patience.  "I 
could  wait— a  thousand  years." 

She  almost  laughed  and  she  almost  cried. 
She  felt  ashamed,  yet  something  in  her  heart 
was  glad. 

"That  wouldn't  be  fair,"  she  said. 

"Not  to  you,"  he  confessed. 

"Nor  to  you,"  she  added. 

He  smiled  in  happiness.     "I  don't  count — for 


DUNNY 

much,"  he  told  her,  simply.  "But  we'll  say  in 
a  month." 

They  started  home  again  along  the  path.  At 
the  edge  of  the  town  stood  a  small,  neglected 
cabin  eloquent  of  struggles  and  need.  A  wom 
an  was  hoeing  the  rich,  dark  mould  inside 
the  wretched  fence.  She  looked  up  quickly  at 
the  passing  pair,  her  gaze  sharply  centred  on 
Sylvia. 

"Jerry  Kirk,  leave  me  speak  with  you  a  min 
ute,"  she  said. 

Jerry  paused.  "All  right,"  he  answered,  and, 
adding  to  Sylvia,  "Be  with  you,  down  at  the 
house,  in  a  shake,"  he  stepped  to  the  fence  and 
placed  his  hands  on  two  of  the  palings. 

Sylvia  went  on  alone. 

The  woman  wiped  her  hands  on  her  apron  as 
she  came  to  where  Jerry  was  waiting. 

"Dobb's  bin  at  his  gamblin'  again,  in  China 
town,"  she  said.  "We  'ain't  got  a  cent  in  the 
house." 

"I've  only  got  ten  dollars  in  my  pocket," 
answered  Jerry,  producing  a  golden  coin  and 
putting  it  down  on  the  scantling  of  the  fence. 
"Don't  tattle  where  you  got  it,  Mrs.  Dobb.  If 
that's  about  all,  I'll  hurry  along." 

"After  yon  pretty  miss  ?"  inquired  the  woman, 
screwing  her  face  and  jerking  her  thumb  where 
72 


JERRY   IS  ANGERED 

Sylvia  had  gone.  "She's  gittin'  even  the 
strangers  by  the  ears." 

"So?"  said  Jerry.  "Well,  good-bye,  I've  got 
to  be— 

"One  of  'em  came  along  awhile  ago,  and  fol- 
lered  her  up  to  the  crick,"  interrupted  the  in 
former.  "She  do  seem  to  be  popular.  I  heard 
Tom  King  has  been  to  see  her  four  or  five  times 
already,  but  you  gray  old  sinners  had  better 
watch  out  for  handsome  young  strangers.  My 
sakes,  but  he  was  put  in  handsome  'nough  for 
any  woman,  if  I  do  say  so,  and  me  and  Dobb 
married  these  seven  years  and  him  a  gamblin'— 

"Who  was  the  handsome  young  stranger?" 
Jerry  interrupted. 

"Mrs.  Barker  told  Mrs.  Meadows  she  heard 
Tid  Flack  got  it  straight  from  Morris,  the  stage- 
driver's  boy,  that  his  name  was  Kennedy,"  in 
formed  Mrs.  Dobb,  pocketing  Jerry's  money  in 
some  mysterious  tatter  of  her  garment.  "I 
didn't  ask  him  myself,  but  I  seen  him  goin'  up 
the  same  way  she  had  went  an  hour  before,  and 
so  I  says  to  myself — " 

"All  right.  I  hope  Dobb  will  come  to  his 
senses.  Good-bye,"  said  Jerry,  and  he  strode 
away  and  left  the  woman  calling  out  her  grati 
tude  in  a  voice  abruptly  flooded  by  tears. 

Jerry  was  filled  with  emotions  partaking  at 
6  73 


DUNNY 

once  of  anger,  jealousy,  and  pain.  There  was 
nothing  going  on  in  Tamarack  that  Mrs.  Dobb 
and  her  circle  of  gossips  did  not  know.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  she  had 
spoken  the  truth.  He  could  not  know  what 
Kennedy's  visit  had  signified,  nor  yet  how  much 
the  man  and  Sylvia  had  become  to  each  other. 
He  did  recall,  however,  the  scene  of  which  he 
had  been  a  witness  on  the  train,  and  all  his 
nature  was  aroused. 

Doubt,  wrath,  and  a  fierce,  unreasoning  hun 
ger  for  Sylvia's  love  were  waging  battle  in  his 
breast.  He  loved  the  girl  with  all  the  ardor  of 
youth,  all  the  strength  of  maturity  in  years,  all 
the  pent-up  force  of  a  nature  suddenly  alive 
after  years  of  lying  unawakened.  Every  attri 
bute  that  goes  with  such  a  love  was  in  a  tumult 
in  his  heart.  He  felt  he  could  catch  and  strangle 
Kennedy  in  lusty  pleasure.  But  he  calmed  him 
self  to  absolute  control  in  the  little  time  that 
passed  before  he  found  himself  alone  with  Sylvia, 
standing  in  the  dingy  little  parlor  of  the  home 
where  she  and  Dunny  lived. 

"Oh,  by-the-way  —  Allan  Kennedy  was  here 
in  town  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  in  a  casual 
tone,  as  he  furtively  watched  her  face.  "Did 
you  hear  he'd  passed  through,  on  his  way  to  the 
summit?" 

74 


JERRY   IS  ANGERED 

"No  one — told  me  anything  about  it,"  she 
answered,  paling  visibly. 

The  answer  was  more  than  evasive  from 
Jerry's  point  of  view;  it  was  deceptive.  She 
knew  this  herself ;  she  hated  the  something  within 
her  which  had  prompted  her  reply ;  and  yet  she 
had  not  the  courage  to  tell  him  all  the  truth. 

Jerry  set  his  jaws.  The  jealousy  dormant  in 
his  nature  swung  back  and  forth  like  a  creature 
caged  by  iron  bars. 

"Too  bad  you  hadn't  known,"  he  said,  in 
apparent  calm. 

For  a  second  she  almost  confessed  to  ev 
erything.  If  she  had,  what  a  different  Jerry 
would  have  responded,  with  ready  forgiveness — 
perhaps  with  generous  surrender  of  his  own  po 
sition. 

' '  Perhaps  he  will  —  visit  here  again — some 
time,"  she  faltered. 

Jerry  could  have  slain  the  younger  man  with 
his  naked  fists,  had  he  had  him  here,  to  think 
that  Sylvia  would  hide  the  truth  of  that  meet 
ing  in  the  trees. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said.  "Well — I've  got  to  go 
down  to  the  office." 

With  one  blurred  look  at  her  whitened  face 
he  departed,  such  a  feeling  in  his  heart  as  he  had 
never  known  before  in  all  his  life. 
75 


X 


DUNNY  ACQUIRES   A    PROPERTY 


ITTLE  Dunny  Weaver  had  been  born 
for  explorations.  He  was,  indeed,  a 
lively  bit  of  a  human  interrogation 
point,  asking  questions  of  nature 
and  his  fellow  -  beings  with  eyes, 
ears,  fingers,  and  tongue  from  morn 
ing  till  night. 

It  soon  came  to  pass  that  he  knew  all  about 
the  diversions  afforded  by  the  Hank  back  yard, 
including  the  chickens,  the  kitten,  and  the  calf. 
He  therefore  began  to  extend  his  field  of  obser 
vations. 

A  week  had  passed  since  that  day  of  Ken 
nedy's  visit,  and  Sylvia  had  neither  seen  nor 
heard  of  Allan  since,  nor  had  she  held  a  dozen 
words  of  conversation  with  Jerry.  That  some 
thing  was  wrong  she  felt  instinctively.  The 
weather  had  been  riotous,  with  wind  and  rain 
and  a  fall  of  sleet  which  had  melted  at  once, 
but  to-day  the  sun  was  again  transcendent. 
76 


DUNNY  ACQUIRES  A  PROPERTY 

Sylvia  kept  to  the  house,  assisting  Mrs.  Hank 
in  the  process  of  taking  up,  cleaning,  and  putting 
down  certain  of  the  carpets.  Dunny  wandered 
off  by  himself. 

The  little  chap  was  destined  to  go  no  farther 
than  a  trail  that  led  to  the  mountains.  Up  and 
down  this  narrow  path  the  Chinese  woodmen 
were  accustomed  to  drive  their  trains  of  little 
donkeys  loaded  with  wood  which  they  gathered 
in  the  hills.  This  wood  they  could  sell  to  their 
countrymen  much  more  cheaply  than  their  fel 
low  yellow  men  could  buy  their  fuel  from  the 
company,  hence  the  traffic. 

The  coolies  had  a  way  of  overloading  their 
animals  of  burden,  so  that  many  a  patient  little 
burro  succumbed  to  the  hardships  of  the  toil. 

When  Dunny  came  to  the  trail  he  wondered 
where  it  led.  He  therefore  trudged  along  in  the 
path  towards  the  mountains.  Thus  he  present 
ly  beheld  the  first  returning  train  of  burros, 
jogging  down  the  slope  in  charge  of  a  tall,  lanky 
Mongolian  with  a  hat  that  resembled  a  basin 
fastened  on  his  head. 

Downward  came  the  weary  donkeys,  grunt 
ing  with  the  weight  of  wood  upon  their  backs. 
Dunny  was  fascinated.  There  were  six  of  the 
gray  little  creatures,  following  one  behind  an 
other  as  they  came.  The  small  boy  presently 
77 


DUNNY 

stepped  from  the  trail  to  let  them  pass.  The 
Chinese  driver  brought  up  the  rear,  emitting  a 
harsh,  peculiar  note  of  command  to  his  beasts 
from  time  to  time. 

"Hullo!"  said  Dunny,  cordially.  "Where  you 
going?" 

The  driver  appeared  not  to  see  his  small 
inquisitor,  and  plodded  on.  He  was  tired  him 
self,  and  as  hopelessly  bound  to  labor  as  the 
burros  he  drove. 

When  they  had  gone  little  Dunny  stood  there 
speculating  for  quite  a  time.  Then  he  trudged 
up  the  trail  again,  as  if  to  find  the  fountain-head 
of  all  this  interesting  business.  But  a  few  hun 
dred  yards  more  of  progress  brought  him  to  a 
point  from  which  he  could  see  a  big  red  tank 
that  governed  the  pressure  of  water  for  the  town. 
This  he  wished  to  inspect,  hence  he  left  the  path 
and  struck  off  a  way  of  his  own. 

The  tank  proved  commonplace  enough,  but 
just  as  he  came  to  the  farther  side  he  made  an 
amazing  discovery.  There  on  the  earth  lay  a 
gray  little  donkey,  apparently  ready  to  die.  A 
frayed  bit  of  rope  was  fastened  about  its  neck 
— a  mute  sign  of  former  servitude.  Its  back 
was  sore,  its  body  was  thin;  it  could  scarcely 
hold  up  its  head. 

Some  Chinese  driver,  having  worked  the 
78 


DUNNY  ACQUIRES    A    PROPERTY 

creature  to  the  last  extremity,  had  thrown  off 
its  load,  when  it  finally  fell,  and  then  had 
abandoned  the  creature  as  worthless. 

All  of  this  little  Dunny  could  not  be  expected 
to  know.  He  did  know,  however,  that  he  liked 
the  sick  little  burro  at  once.  He  realized  also 
that  the  animal  was  ill. 

"Poor  Jack!"  said  the  small  explorer — "poor 
Jack!"  and,  going  up,  he  patted  the  animal  on 
the  head  with  his  soft  little  hand.  "What's 
the  matter?  Where  do  you  feel  bad — on  your 
back?" 

The  almost  dying  donkey  was  somewhat 
startled.  Some  horrid  dream  of  coercion,  per 
haps  of  beatings  and  abuse,  must  have  risen  to 
its  brain,  for  it  made  an  effort  and  staggered  to 
its  feet.  Then  it  seemed  to  look  at  the  small, 
compassionate  figure  gazing  so  earnestly  up  in 
its  face  and  to  feel  no  fear.  It  made  no  move 
ment  to  escape,  but  breathed  out  a  sigh  of  utter 
hopelessness. 

"You  come  home  with  me  and  I'll  give  you 
some  hay,"  said  Dunny,  coaxingly.  "And  may 
be  some  nice,  warm  milk." 

He  took  the  tattered  rope  in  hand  to  lead  the 
creature  away.  The  donkey  appeared  to  hesi 
tate.  It  was  so  much  easier  to  fall  on  the  earth 
and  give  up  the  struggle ;  but  fate  had  planned 
79 


DUNNY 

things  otherwise,  and  destiny  needed  this  part 
nership  between  the  child  and  the  animal  prop 
erly  to  weave  together  her  joys,  worries,  and 
tragedies.  Haltingly,  stiffly,  the  burro  took  a 
step,  the  habit  of  obedience  strong  upon  it. 
Painfully  limping,  it  followed  behind  its  small, 
new  proprietor. 

Though  the  distance  was  comparatively  short, 
a  good  half  -  hour  was  consumed  before  little 
Dunny  brought  his  charge  to  the  cow  -  stable 
back  of  the  house  where  he  lived.  Here  there 
were  two  good  stalls,  in  one  of  which  he  secured 
his  invalid,  whereupon  he  busied  himself  fetch 
ing  hay  and  water  for  the  creature  to  consume. 

Some  of  the  water  the  burro  gladly  accept 
ed.  It  even  nibbled  weakly  at  the  fodder,  but 
it  presently  lay  down  again  and  appeared  to  fall 
asleep. 

Dunny  now  made  up  his  mind  to  go  for  adult 
assistance.  His  sister  and  Mrs.  Hank  were  en 
gaged,  he  knew,  and,  furthermore,  he  had  heard 
many  tales  concerning  the  wellnigh  universal 
knowledge  of  one  Tid  Flack,  the  cobbler,  whom 
he  therefore  much  desired  to  meet.  He  started 
off  at  once  to  look  up  the  famed  repository  of 
intelligence. 

There  could  be  but  little  trouble  in  finding 
Mr.  Flack.  He  had  four  great  profile  boots, 
80 


DUNNY  ACQUIRES   A   PROPERTY 

sawed  out  of  plank,  adorning  his  place  of  busi 
ness,  with  his  name  spelled  large  upon  each. 
When  Dunny  looked  through  the  blurred  little 
window  of  the  smoky  little  kennel  of  a  shop,  at 
a  dried-up,  wrinkled  little  workman  on  the 
bench,  pounding  prodigiously  on  the  sole  of  a 
shoe,  he  wondered  how  knowledge,  in  very  large 
quantities,  could  possibly  be  confined  in  the 
place. 

He  went  in.  Flack  looked  up  at  him  instant 
ly,  raising  two  of  the  blackest,  sharpest  eyes 
imaginable  for  the  purpose.  Then  he  went  on 
pounding  the  shoe.  Dunny  thought  the  cob 
bler's  face  must  have  been  kept  all  winter  in  the 
cellar  with  the  apples,  for  it  looked  very  small 
and  had  a  last-season  appearance  that  was  quite 
unmistakable.  But  perhaps  that  was  the  way 
that  everybody  looked  who  knew  so  very  much. 
Besides,  he  was  wearing  a  pair  of  glasses  on  top 
of  his  head,  and  these  seemed  to  watch  a  fellow 
all  the  time. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Dunny.  "Are  you 
Mr.  Flack?" 

"Timonides  Flack,"  said  the  cobbler.  "'  Tid' 
for  short." 

"My  name  is  Dunny  Weaver,"  vouchsafed 
the  small  visitor,  in  his  friendliest  manner. 

"Well,  Weaver,  what  can  I  do  for  you  to- 
81 


DUNNY 

day?"  inquired  the  cobbler,  looking  up  again 
and  wiping  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his 
mouth  without  releasing  his  grasp  on  the 
hammer.  "Anything  important  on  your  mind  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Dunny.  "I've  found  a  don 
key." 

Mr.  Flack  regarded  him  sharply,  a  quick  sus 
picion  of  lurking  personality  in  Dunny 's  reply 
darting  edgewise  into  his  brain. 

"Where?"  he  demanded. 

"Way  up  that  way,"  answered  Dunny,  point 
ing  comprehensively  towards  the  mountains. 
"He's  sick,  I  guess,  and  his  back  is  all  hurt,  and 
I  thought  if  you  know  everything  you  could  help 
me  make  him  well." 

The  shoemaker  felt  himself  remarkably  molli 
fied. 

"Who  told  you  to  come  to  me,  Weaver5"  he 
inquired. 

"Nobody,"  said  Dunny. 

"Remarkable  instinct,"  mused  the  man. 
"Where's  your  donkey  now?" 

"Up  home,  to  Mrs.  Hank's.  Can  you  come 
and  fix  him  now?" 

"How's  your  sister?"  demanded  Tid. 

"Pretty  well,  thank  you,"  answered  Dunny, 
marvelling  at  this  proof  of  the  Flackian  scope 
of  knowledge. 

82 


DUNNY  ACQUIRES    A    PROPERTY 

"Does  she  like  Tom  King?"  inquired  the 
querist. 

Dunny  replied,  "I  don't  know." 

"Neither  does  Tom,"  said  Tid,  and  he  grinned 
in  a  manner  fearfully  fascinating.  "Wait  till  I 
get  my  specks,  Weaver,  then  we're  off." 

"Your  glasses  are  up  on  your  hair,"  said 
Dunny. 

"That's  where  they  belong,"  answered  the 
cobbler,  who  never  wished  any  one  to  think 
he  was  giving  him  information  not  already  pos 
sessed.  He  left  the  glasses  where  they  were, 
putting  over  them  a  hat  that  was  far  too  small 
for  his  diminutive  head,  and,  leaving  his  shop 
wide  open,  started  with  Dunny  up  the  street. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  lock  the  door?"  asked  the 
worried  little  chap. 

"If  I  did,  Weaver,  how  could  people  get  in  to 
leave  the  shoes  they  want  me  to  mend?"  an 
swered  Tid. 

"That's  so,"  agreed  Dunny,  and,  putting  his 
hand  in  the  weazened  fist  of  the  cobbler,  he 
walked  at  his  side  in  expanding  happiness  of 
mind. 


XI 


DUNNY   DISCOURAGES   A   SUITOR 


OGETHER  the  man  and  the  quaint 
little  owner  of  the  donkey  came  to  the 
shed  where  the  animal  was  lying. 
Tid  looked  exceptionally  wise  as  he 
scrutinized  the  weary  creature  nib 
bling  feebly  at  the  hay. 
"Buzzards  won't  eat  him  as  long  as  he  eats," 
he  observed,  with  a  wonderful  wink.  "The  way 
to  keep  out  of  the  poor-house,  Weaver,  is  not  to 
git  poor,  and  the  way  to  keep  out  of  the  grave 
is  never  to  die." 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  his  back?" 
inquired  Dunny.  "Can  you  fix  his  back?" 

"We've  got  to  wash  it,"  Tid  replied.  "You 
can't  half-sole  a  back  like  that,  Weaver — not 
with  the  hide  of  a  cow  and  him  a  sort  of 
horse." 

"I'll  get  the  water  and  a  rag,"  volunteered 
Dunny,  and  this  he  did. 

To  do  him  justice,  Tid  was  gentle  and  skilful 
84 


DUNNY  DISCOURAGES  A   SUITOR 

in  his  ministrations  to  the  burro.  After  washing 
the  wound,  he  salved  it  with  axle-grease,  certain 
to  help  it  to  heal. 

A  friendship  as  solid  as  it  was  peculiar  took 
root  between  the  cobbler  and  his  small  com 
panion.  On  Dunny's  part  it  was  full  and 
mature  already,  but  the  man  was  reserved 
towards  the  little  chap,  whose  motives  could 
not  as  yet  be  divined.  He  was  secretly  delight 
ed  and  flattered,  however,  for  no  other  child  in 
all  the  world  had  ever  come,  with  trust  and  ad 
miration,  to  seek  him  out  before. 

"Weaver,"  he  said,  when  the  donkey's  back 
was  "fixed"  to  his  satisfaction,  "we  must  keep 
our  eye  on  the  critter  every  day.  He  used  to 
be  a  Chinese  animal,  packin'  wood,  so  there 
ain't  no  tellin'  when  he  might  break  out  with 
somethin'  Chinese,  like  the  measles." 

"I  ain't  going  to  let  him  break  out  of  here," 
answered  Dunny.  "And  when  he  gits  well  I'm 
going  to  have  a  ride,  and  you,  too,  Tid,  if  you 
want  to." 

"I  wouldn't  ride  on  the  Angel  Gabriel,  not 
even  on  Sunday,  when  things  is  unusual  quiet," 
said  Tid.  "But  you  come  down  every  day  for 
me  and  we'll  git  him  well  in  a  hurry.  What's 
his  name?" 

"Jack,"  replied  the  small  proprietor, 
85 


DUNNY 

"I  wouldn't  call  him  Jack,   Weaver — make 
him    think    he's    common,"    said    the    cobbler. 
"I'd  call  him  'Splendor  of  the  Blushin"  Morn'- 
and  'Splen'  when  you're  busy." 

"What  would  that  make  him  think?"  in 
quired  Dunny. 

"Think?"  said  Tid.  "Make  him  think  his 
dried-up  hay  was  strawberries  and  cream.  It's 
wonderful  the  things  a  high-soundin'  name  will 
make  a  low-bred  critter  think." 

"Wouldn't  he  think  he  was  most  too  nice  to 
let  me  ride?"  asked  the  little  chap,  seriously. 

"If  ever  he  does,  you  let  me  know,"  and  Tid 
gave  another  of  his  awe-inspiring  winks.  "Now 
I'm  goin'  back  to  work.  Nuthin'  like  work, 
Weaver — nuthin'  like  work  to  keep  a  man  from 
playin'." 

Dunny  walked  a  part  way  down  to  the  shop 
with  his  friend,  and  then  returned  to  inform 
Mrs.  Hank  and  his  sister  of  all  that  had  hap 
pened. 

Mrs.  Hank  was  a  tall,  somewhat  angular  per 
son,  with  a  countenance  decidedly  Indianesque. 
She  had  a  habit  of  snapping  her  eyes  inces 
santly. 

"Land   sakes   alive!"   she   said,    at   Dunny's 
news.     "Do   you   mean   to   say   you've   got   a 
donkey  out  in  the  barn,  right  this  minute?" 
86 


DUNNY   DISCOURAGES  A   SUITOR 

"It  ain't  a  real  barn,"  answered  Dunny. 
"Barns  are  big." 

"My  powers!"  said  the  lady.  "Ain't  he  the 
child!" 

"But  the  donkey  may  belong  to  some  one 
else,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Nope  —  he's  only  mine,"  corrected  Dunny. 
"Losers  weepers,  finders  keepers." 

"We  can  tell  better  when  we  see  him,"  vent 
ured  Mrs.  Hank.  "Let's  go  and  look  at  the 
critter." 

Dunny  led  the  way  in  haste.  A  more  earnest 
explanation  than  he  gave  of  the  animal's  virtues 
or  of  Tid  Flack's  marvellous  erudition  would 
hardly  have  been  possible.  The  two  women 
examined  the  ailing  burro  in  a  dubious  mood. 

"Well — it's  a  donkey,  there  can't  be  any 
doubt  of  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hank.  "That's  some 
thing  in  his  favor." 

"And  he's  mine,"  supplemented  Dunny. 

"I  don't  believe  any  one  else  would  want 
him,"  Sylvia  ventured.  "What  did  Mr.  Flack 
say  about  it?" 

"He  said  to  call  him  'Blushing  something,' 
and  'Splen'  when  I'm  busy,"  answered  the 
earnest  little  chap.  "I  kind  of  like  'Jack,' 
myself." 

"Oh,  Tid  Flack!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Hank,  in 
87 


DUNNY 

scorn.  "Well,  the  critter's  here,  and  we  can't 
do  anything  about  it,  leastwise  not  till  he  can 
walk.  Pity  it  ain't  another  cow,  with  Mrs. 
Dobb  and  Mrs.  Meadows  wantin'  milk  from  us, 
and  none  to  spare,  with  us  supplyin'  the  Barkers 
and  the  Pratts." 

"You  can't  ride  on  cows,"  objected  Dunny. 

"You  never  can  tell  till  it  comes  to  a  pinch," 
replied  Mrs.  Hank,  her  eyes  swiftly  snapping  as 
she  spoke.  "But  this  ain't  finishin'  up  the 
parlor,  and  if  happen  Tom  King  or  some  of  the 
boys  should  come  around  spar  kin'  this  evenin', 
why,  we  don't  want  things  lookin'  like  Noah's 
Ark  durin'  a  storm." 

Sylvia  decidedly  objected  to  suggestions  of 
"sparkings"  on  the  part  of  Mr.  King  or  any 
other  person  in  the  town,  involving  herself  as 
they  certainly  did,  but  remonstrance,  mild  or 
otherwise,  was  lost  on  the  garrulous  Mrs.  Hank, 
and  the  fact  remained  that  a  number  of  "the 
boys"  were  visiting  the  house  with  annoying 
regularity.  Moreover,  there  appeared  to  be 
nothing  to  do  to  discourage  this  state  of  affairs. 
To  the  bachelor  men  of  Tamarack  an  unmarried 
girl,  especially  when  beautiful  and  thoroughly 
engaging,  was  an  object  of  the  deepest  possible 
interest.  What  a  spirit  of  rivalry  her  presence 
had  engendered  already,  Miss  Sylvia  could  not 
88 


DUNNY   DISCOURAGES  A   SUITOR 

even  guess.  She  only  knew  she  was  bored  by 
the  hulking  fellows  who  came  to  the  house,  and 
that  Mrs.  Hank,  incorrigible  as  a  child,  was  at 
once  an  aggravation  and  a  comfort  for  whom 
her  affection  was  daily  increasing. 

"I  hope  we'll  have  the  evening  to  ourselves," 
she  said,  as  they  once  more  returned  to  their 
labors. 

But  the  evening  brought  its  quota  of  admir 
ers,  nevertheless.  There  were  four,  who  came 
by  half-past  seven  o'clock — Jimmie  Sutt,  Henry 
Dole,  Malin  Crowe,  and  Thomas  King. 

All  the  men  save  King  were  employed  piling 
lumber  at  the  "dump"  of  the  flume.  King 
kept  a  store,  was  a  notary  public,  aspired  to  be 
justice  of  the  peace,  and  was  not  infrequently 
alluded  to  as  "Judge."  He  was  dignified  be 
yond  the  possible  attainment  of  his  rivals.  His 
manner  was  studiously  polite,  his  clothing  and 
shoes  were  brushed  and  polished  to  perfection, 
and  his  head  was  as  barren  of  hair  as  a  melon. 

They  sat,  all  four,  disposed  about  the  room 
in  various  attitudes  of  awkwardness,  as  they 
talked  of  lumber  and  the  weather  to  Mrs.  Hank 
and  her  husband,  referring  every  topic  to  Sylvia 
as  an  artful  means  of  securing  her  attention. 

It  was  not  a  lively  evening,  despite  the  fact 
that  little  Dunny  did  his  best  to  assist  by  tell- 
7  89 


DUNNY 

ing  Dole  and  Crowe  every  item  he  could  muster 
concerning  his  donkey  in  the  shed. 

Sylvia  sat  beside  the  table,  darning  a  stocking 
so  small  that  its  ownership  was  patent  to  all. 
Mr.  Hank  was  smoking,  while  his  wife  was  knit 
ting  a  tidy  as  if  her  life  depended  on  her  speed. 

"Flume  '11  run  full  time,  right  along,  regular, 
from  to-morrow,  Miss  Weaver,"  ventured  Malin 
Crowe,  a  red-faced  young  laborer.  "Ever  see 
a  flume  before?" 

"No,  I  never  did,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Ain't  much  to  see,"  interposed  Mrs.  Hank. 
"Jest  like  a  great,  long  pig-trough  full  of  runnin' 
water." 

"Mighty  valuable  property,"  said  Mr.  Sutt. 
"Don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Weaver?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  answered  Sylvia. 

"Man  can  git  an  awful  ride  down  that  there 
pig-trough,  if  he  falls  in  onto  a  drive  of  lumber 
up  to  the  summit,"  volunteered  Henry  Dole, 
whose  hair  was  white  as  one  result  of  having  , 
undergone  the  experience  mentioned.  "Easy 
way  to  git  yourself  clean  scared  to  death,  Miss 
Weaver." 

"It  must  be  awful,"  answered  the  girl,  paus 
ing  in  her  work  to  look  at  Dole,  of  whom  she 
had  heard  as  one  of  two  living  men  who  had 
ever  survived  a  journey  down  the  flume  from 
90 


DUNNY   DISCOURAGES  A  SUITOR 

the  top  of  the  mountain.  "It  is  very,  very 
steep  down  the  hill-side,  I  believe." 

"Steep?"  echoed  Dole,  and  he  turned  exceed 
ingly  pale  in  recollection  of  the  ride  he  once 
had  taken.  "Steep,  Miss  Weaver?  That  there 
water  can't  run  fast  enough  to  f oiler  a  timber 
down  that  steepest  place!" 

"Quite  true,  Miss  Weaver,"  assented  Thomas 
King,  in  his  way  of  dignity.  "I've  often  thought 
I'd  kind  of  like  to  try  that  there  ride  myself." 

Dunny  liked  Mr.  King  for  this  remark.  He 
liked  the  gentleman's  spirit  of  adventure.  In 
deed,  as  he  looked  at  the  visitor  and  studied 
him  carefully  he  felt  a  childish  stirring  of  emo 
tions  come  upon  him,  one  by  one.  At  first 
there  was  awe  of  a  man  who  could  think  of 
trying  that  ride  in  the  flume;  then  there  was 
fascination,  chiefly  centred  on  the  man's  pol 
ished  head,  so  smooth  and  glistening  in  the 
light.  Finally,  his  utmost  sympathy  for  the 
condition  of  Mr.  King's  head  was  excited. 

Quietly  the  grave  little  fellow  walked  around 
and  viewed  Mr.  King  from  the  rear.  He  found 
that  the  desert  waste  of  hairlessness  extended 
far  down  the  posterior  slope  of  the  visitor's  dome. 

"Yes,"  Mr.  King  was  saying,  "I've  tried  buck 
ing  horses,  Miss  Weaver,  and  was  rather  tickled 
by  the  sensation.  I  near  went  up  in  a  large 
91 


DUNNY 

balloon,  one  time.  I  once  jumped  off  a  high 
house,  and,  in  fact,  Miss  Weaver,  I'm  sort  of 
stuck  on  danger." 

By  this  time  Dunny  could  endure  the  press 
ure  of  feeling  within  him  no  longer.  He  went 
up  softly  behind  Mr.  King  and  placed  his  tiny 
hand  on  the  large,  bare  pate,  which  he  patted 
soothingly. 

"Poor  old  bald  head!"  he  crowed — "poor  old 
bald  head!" 

For  a  second  consternation  seemed  to  petrify 
the  entire  assemblage,  including  Mr.  King,  who 
was  morbidly  sensitive  concerning  his  hair. 
Then  his  three  husky  friends,  who  had  come  to 
"spark,"  abruptly  exploded.  So  did  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hank. 

Mr.  King  shot  suddenly  up  from  his  chair, 
his  hand  clapped  fiercely  in  protection  on  his 
head.  He  was  purple  with  emotion.  He  made 
one  wild  descent  upon  his  hat,  where  it  hung 
on  a  rack,  and  bolted  for  the  door. 

That  evening  the  story  of  Tom  King's  latest 
adventure  became  town  property,  and  Cobbler 
Flack  was  excited.  "I  didn't  know  there  was 
any  genuine  amusement  around  the  Hanks' 
premises,"  said  he  to  one  of  the  boys.  "I  guess 
we'll  git  up  an  old-fashioned  supprise-party  for 
Weaver  right  away." 

92 


XII 
A  SURPRISE- PARTY 

N  air  of  mystery  pervaded  Tid  Flack's 
dingy  little  cobbler-shop  on  the  night 
of  the  final  conspiracy,  for  Tid,  Jimmie 
Sutt,  Malin  Crowe,  and  Henry  Dole, 
the  inmates,  were  not  only  particu 
larly  silent  when  Thomas  King  made 
bold  to  enter  at  the  door,  but  their  shadows  were 
cast  upon  the  walls  in  prodigious  size  by  the 
sickly  little  lamp  beside  the  cobbler's  knee,  and 
their  looks  suggested  guilt. 

King  came  in  there  impatiently.  His  mood 
was  one  of  scorn  for  all  the  gathered  company 
and  their  plans,  yet  beneath  it  lay  curiosity  of 
exceptional  significance.  He  looked  the  assem 
blage  over  with  a  certain  air  of  superiority,  and 
studied  Tid  Flack's  countenance  with  scant  re 
spect. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  moment  of  impressive 
silence,  "I  just  dropped  in  as  I  was  passin'  by, 
fer  I  didn't  reckon  to  attend  no  regular  meeting. 
93 


DUNNY 

I  only  thought  I'd  see  if  you  old  ninnies  was 
still  foolin'  'round  to  git  up  a  jack-legged  soiree 
up  to  Mrs.  Hank's." 

The  rawboned  lumbermen  stirred  on  their 
seats  uneasily.  All  looked  to  Cobbler  Flack  for 
defence  of  their  present  position.  Tid  coughed 
behind  his  hand. 

"No,  King,  we  ain't  contemplating  anything 
gaudy  or  Shakesperious,"  he  replied,  with  grav 
ity.  "We're  preparing  a  home-made  supprise- 
party  —  just  a  regular,  old-fashioned  supprise- 
party — for  little  Dunny  Weaver,  and  we  thought 
as  you  was  sort  of  sweet  on  his  sister,  why — 

"Turn  that  off,  Flack! — turn  it  off !"  interrupt 
ed  King,  vehemently.  "Shut  down  your  head- 
gate  right  where  you  are!  I  ain't  been  around 
no  more  than  any  of  these  other  galoots — and 
none  of  us  ain't  done  very  fancy  anyhow. 
What's  more,  you  don't  know  a  supprise-party 
when  you  see  it.  Supprise-party?  Rats! 
You've  been  talkin'  about  the  racket  for  the 
last  three  days,  and  everybody  into  camp  knows 
the  thing  is  comin'." 

"Tid  ain't  told  nobody  but  little  Dunny," 
said  Malin  Crowe;  "and,  besides,  there'll  be  a 
supprise-party,  don't  you  worry." 

"You  always  have  to  tell  the  suppris-ee," 
added  Flack,  sagely.     "Women  hate  to  be  really 
94 


A  SURPRISE. PARTY 

supprised.  They  don't  git  time  to  crimp  their 
hair  or  wash  the  back  of  their  neck.  And  one 
tmcrimped  woman  can  sour  the  whole  she 
bang." 

"And  if  you  don't  tell  the  supprisers,  then 
how  kin  they  bring  refreshments?"  inquired 
Jimmie  Sutt.  "And  how  kin  you  have  a  party 
without  nuthin'  to  eat?" 

"That's  why  we're  goin'  to  have  the  candy- 
pull  to-night,"  added  Henry  Dole.  "Refresh 
ments  don't  grow  on  every  tree  in  camp." 

' '  Candy-pull  ? ' '  echoed  Thomas  King.  ' '  Where  ? 
Who's  goin'  to  make  the  candy?" 

"The  whole  crowd,  over  to  Jimmie 's,"  an 
swered  Crowe.  "He's  got  a  fire  goin'  now. 
And  the  pop-corn's  right  here  in  this  bag."  He 
indicated  a  barley-sack  with  more  than  a  bushel 
of  corn  in  its  hold. 

King  stared  at  it  hungrily.  Then  he  looked 
at  each  of  the  men  in  turn;  he  was  itching  to 
be  one  of  the  party. 

"Well,  I  suppose  if  you  gentlemen  know  how 
to  run  a  candy-pull,"  he  said,  "why,  you  might 
not  need  me  along.  But  in  case  you  want  any 
pointers,  why — 

He  waited,  without  concluding  his  sentence. 

"Sure  shot  you  ought  to  help!"  said  Jimmie 
Sutt.     "We  can't  have  too  much  savvy  when 
95 


DUNNY 

it  comes  to  makin'  candy.  I  don't  claim  to 
know  it  all  myself." 

"Neither  do  I,"  confessed  Henry  Dole.  "I 
only  know  you've  got  to  butter  your  paws  when 
you  pull  it." 

"We  expected  you  to  come,  King,  to  sort  of 
diagnose  the  candy,"  added  Flack.  "If  she 
ain't  diagnosed  she  may  not  be  done,  and  when 
she  ain't  done  she  ain't  candy — she's  gravy." 

"Well,  of  course  I  know  two  or  three  ways 
of  tellin'  when  it's  done,"  said  King,  "and  I 
don't  mind  steerin'  you  straight." 

"Then  we'll  go  right  now,"  decided  the  cob 
bler,  promptly  blowing  out  the  lamp. 

"Don't  fergit  this  here  pop-corn,"  admonish 
ed  Malin  Crowe.  "Here,  Dole,  you  take  it. 
I've  got  to  go  up  to  my  shack  fer  about  fifteen 
minutes,  and  then  I'll  join  you  all  at  Jimmie's." 

But  instead  of  going  up  the  slope  to  his  own 
dark  cabin,  Mr.  Crowe  slipped  quietly  down  to 
the  house  where  Mistress  Julia  Fothergill  was 
reading,  alone,  in  her  kitchen.  Julia  had  been 
the  one  unmarried  young  woman  in  the  place 
before  the  advent  of  Sylvia  Weaver. 

Crowe  paused  outside  the  window,  and,  study 
ing  the  figure  of  the  buxom  young  woman  within, 
decided  she  was  not  so  very  homely,  after  all. 
She  was  a  vast  improvement  on  no  girl,  and 
96 


A  SURPRISE- PARTY 

something  had  told  him  it  was  vain  to  aspire 
to  the  hand  of  Dunny's  sister  at  the  Hanks'. 

His  knock  on  the  door  startled  Miss  Julia 
prodigiously.  He  entered  the  room  to  find  her 
standing  by  the  table  and  staring  towards  him 
in  extreme  agitation. 

"Why,  Malin  Crowe,  is  it  only  you?"  she 
stammered,  in  confusion.  "I  thought — I  was 
just  a-readin'  how  the  villain,  Lord  Gnashleigh, 
come  sneakin'  in  on  the  unsuspectin'  Dora, 
which  was  really  Lady  Dovecote,  and  my  heart 
near  jumped  out  on  the  table — and  it's  only  you, 
after  all;  and  what  d'  you  want,  anyhow,  I'd  like 
to  know?" 

Malin  Crowe  had  snatched  off  his  hat.  His 
face  was  very  red,  his  smile  sickly. 

"Huh!  I  ain't  no  villain,  Julia,  you  bet  your 
boots,"  he  said,  reassuringly.  "I'm  the  other 
feller  in  the  story.  I — I  come  down  to  say — 
to  ask — to —  Say,  Julia,  let's  you  and  me  git 
married.  If  you'll  be  my  wife,  I'll  be  your  hus 
band." 

Julia  pulled  a  hair-pin  from  her  Titian  tresses 
and  shut  her  book  upon  it  to  keep  her  place. 
Then  she  turned  to  look  at  Malin  calmly,  her 
two  big  hands  on  her  hips. 

"Well,  if  I  ever!"  she  said.  "I  didn't  think 
you'd  be  like  the  others,  Malin  Crowe,  but  I 
97 


DUNNY 

might  have  known  you'd  git  sick  of  snoopin' 
around  that  Miss  Weaver  pretty  soon,  for  you 
didn't  have  no  more  business  there  than  a  frog 
has  got  in  the  soup.  And  after  you've  all  got 
white  around  the  gills,  you  and  Jimmie  Sutt  and 
Hen  Dole  and  baldheaded  Tom  King  think  it's 
time  to  come  and  pop  to  Julia,  hey?  Well, 
I  scorn  your  advancing  Mr.  Crowe.  I  don't 
hanker  after  Crowe.  And  if  Tid  ain't  so  pretty 
nor  so  terrible  big,  and  if  I  did  tell  him  I'd  have 
to  think  it  over,  why,  anyways,  he  didn't  wait 
for  no  Miss  Weaver  to  look  right  past  him  be 
fore  he  thought  of  me.  And  you  kin  git,  Malin 
Crowe,  for  I'm  right  in  the  middle  of  the  most 
excitin'  part,  and  the  real  prince  is  the  one 
which  nobody  suspicions  all  the  time." 

Crowe  looked  at  the  girl  in  utter  bewilderment. 

"Do  you  mean  you  won't  do  it?"  he  asked, 
incredulously.  "You  won't  be  my  darlin'  little 
wife?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  I  won't!"  answered  Julia, 
with  emphasis.  "Don't  you  understand  no  Eng 
lish  conversation?" 

"But  it  would  be  such  a  bully  supprise  to  all 
the  boys,"  pleaded  Crowe.  "There  won't  be  no 
supprise  if  you  don't." 

"Well,  it  '11  supprise  me  terrible  if  I  do,"  re 
plied  Miss  Fothergill.  "And  I  don't  desire  to 
98 


A  SURPRISE-PARTY 

hear  no  further  prolongation  of  the  painful 
scene.  I  am  aware  of  the  honor  you're  doin' 
me,  sir,  but  blandishments  and  arguments  is 
vain.  Farewell!  That's  all.  Don't  stand  there 
no  more.  And  shut  the  door  without  slammin', 
'cause  a  glass  is  loose  in  the  winder.  So,  good 
night,  Malin,  and  pleasant  dreams." 

Malin  was  stunned,  but  he  went,  and  all  the 
way  to  the  candy-pull  he  was  pondering  Julia's 
revelations.  The  state  of  her  mind  was  beyond 
him.  When  he  came  to  Jimmie  Sutt's,  how 
ever,  the  rich  aroma  of  boiling  molasses  and 
half-done  candy  burning  in  drops  on  the  top 
of  the  stove  stole  soothingly  upon  his  senses 
and  renewed  his  faith  in  the  sweetness  of  life. 

"Here  he  is  now,"  said  Henry  Dole,  as  Malin 
entered  the  cabin.  "Say,  Crowe,  didn't  you  say 
we'd  ought  to  stir  in  some  bakin'-powder  when 
she's  done,  to  make  her  nice  and  white,  and  to 
poke  the  cloves  into  her  while  she  was  bein' 
pulled?" 

"Yep,  that's  the  way  we  always  done  it  to 
home,"  answered  Crowe.  "Who  says  any  dif 
ferent?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  dispute  your  receipt,"  replied 
Thomas  King;  "but  I  said  I'd  et  molasses  candy 
which  didn't  have  no  foreign  substances  into 
it." 

99 


DUNNY 

"And  the  rest  of  us  agrees  it  wouldn't  be  no 
good  without  cloves  and  cinnamon  and  nutmeg 
and  just  a  leetle  touch  of  whiskey,  fer  we  ain't 
got  no  vaniller,"  added  Jimmie  Sutt.  "We 
don't  want  her  to  taste  like  Sunday-school 
chewin'-gum.  We  want  the  real  article." 

Tid  Flack  was  standing  by  the  red-hot  stove, 
diligently  stirring  the  boiling  mess  which  the 
boys  had  created.  The  fumes  and  the  heat  were 
slowly  overwhelming  his  brain.  Crowe  took  a 
look  at  the  viscid  mixture  and  drew  in  a  mighty 
noseful  of  its  fragrance. 

"Smells  like  the  kitchen  part  of  heaven,"  he 
said.  "What's  in  her  besides  molasses?" 

"A  spoonful  of  Worcestershire  and  half  a  cup 
of  ketchup  and  some  pickle-juice  —  'cause  we 
didn't  have  no  vinegar — five  cups  of  sugar  and 
half  a  cup  of  condensed  milk,"  answered  Jimmie 
Sutt,  proudly.  ' '  We  wanted  her  rich — and  durn 
the  expense." 

"No  eggs?"  inquired  Crowe;    "not  a  single 

egg?" 

The  men  looked  from  one  to  another  guiltily. 

"We  never  thought  of  eggs,"  confessed  Henry 
Dole.  "Jimmie,  have  you  got  any  eggs?" 

"No,"  said  Jimmie,  "nary  an  egg  in  the 
shack." 

"Well,"  said  Thomas  King,  "I've  seen  mo- 
100 


A  SURPRISE-PARTY 

lasses  candy  before  that  was  made  without 
eggs.  It  ain't  so  smooth,  but  it  goes  pretty 
good.  Let's  see  if  she's  done." 

He  took  the  spoon  from  the  cobbler's  hand, 
dipped  out  a  generous  dose  of  the  boiling  candy, 
and  dropped  it  into  a  dipper  of  water.  It  sank 
to  the  bottom  and  hardened  to  the  consisten 
cy  of  flint.  All  the  cooks  gathered  about  King 
while  he  loosened  the  black  mass  from  the  bot 
tom  of  the  dipper.  Meantime,  the  mess  on  the 
stove  was  burning  industriously. 

"She's  just  about  ready,"  announced  the 
diagnostician,  lifting  the  dripping  nodule  of 
stuff  from  the  water.  "Grease  your  pan! — 
grease  your  pan!  She'll  be  done  in  just  two 
minutes!" 

The  receptacle  they  smeared  with  bacon-fat 
was  a  gold  -  pan  which  had  once  done  service 
in  washing  gravel  in  a  mining -camp.  It  was 
large,  strong,  and  three  inches  deep,  with  a 
widely  flaring  rim.  Into  its  hold  the  seething, 
volcanic  confection  was  poured,  and  Cobbler 
Tid  Flack  sat  down  to  watch  it  cool  for  pulling, 
while  the  others  made  clumsy  preparations  to 
pop  their  bushel  of  corn. 

They  were  a  long  time  making  ready,  and  the 
candy  was  stubbornly  retentive  of  its  heat. 
Above  it  Tid  Flack  held  his  head  upon  his  hand, 

101 


DUNNY 

while  the  warmth  increased  his  drowsiness  and 
the  rich,  heavy  fragrance  cloyed  his  senses. 
He  nodded,  pulled  himself  up  with  a  jerk,  then 
nodded  again  above  the  pool  of  stuff.  He  did 
his  very  utmost  to  force  his  eyes  wide  open, 
yet  the  voices  of  the  others  served  rather  to 
soothe  than  excite  him,  and  peace  engulfed  his 
being  —  a  peace  deliciously  scented  by  the 
candy. 

Meantime,  his  comrades  had  burned  a  whole 
popper  full  of  corn.  While  they  wrangled  and 
exchanged  information  concerning  the  art  of 
popping  the  kernels,  Tid  Flack  had  utterly  suc 
cumbed  to  the  goddess  of  sleep.  Down,  down 
sank  his  chin  upon  his  breast ;  then  down,  down 
sank  his  body,  till  at  last  his  head,  with  its 
tangle  of  thick,  wiry  hair,  was  pillowed  in  the 
great  pool  of  candy,  into  the  warm,  yielding 
substance  of  which  it  sank  to  a  depth  of  at 
least  two  inches. 

Comforted,  almost  narcotized  by  the  delights 
of  his  rest,  Tid  at  length  began  to  snore.  One 
of  the  boys  engrossed  with  the  corn  suddenly 
recalled  the  fact  that  candy  must  be  pulled 
before  it  hardens. 

"Hey,  Tid!"  he  called,  "how's  she  coolin'?" 

Then  he  cast  a  glance  in  Tid's  direction  and 
was  all  but  petrified  with  horror. 
102 


A  SURPRISE-PARTY 

"Boys!"  he  yelled,  at  the  top  of  his  voice — 
"boys,  look  at  Tid  in  the  candy!" 

The  boys  looked;  then  chaos  reigned.  All 
bawled  in  fury  or  astonishment,  three  ran  to 
part  the  pan  and  Tid,  and  the  corn  on  the 
stove  was  left  to  fill  the  house  with  its  reek. 

At  the  first  savage  pounce  upon  the  pan  and 
his  neck,  Tid  Flack  was  rudely  awakened. 

"Git  out  of  that!  Git  out!  Git  out!"  cried 
King,  who  was  proud  of  the  candy. 

He  had  snatched  the  pan,  even  as  Sutt  had 
gripped  the  cobbler,  and  both  were  instantly 
tugging  with  lusty  might  and  main. 

Tid  yelled.  His  head  was  thoroughly  cement 
ed  in  the  pan,  the  candy  having  hardened  till  a 
cold-chisel  only  could  have  cut  it.  To  save  his 
precious  scalp,  if  not,  indeed,  his  entire  super 
structure,  Flack  laid  frantic  hold  upon  the  pan 
and  wrestled  against  the  candy's  parents  wildly. 

"Leave  go!  Leave  go!"  he  shrieked,  in  his 
anguish.  "I'm  stuck!  You're  pulling  off  my 
neck!" 

King  and  Sutt  beheld  that  this  was  so.  Ex 
cited  as  they  were,  they  realized  that  Tid  and 
the  candy  had  amalgamated  into  one  compact 
mass  that  utterly  defied  the  rescue  of  either  one, 
even  by  violent  measures. 

"Well,  what  in  hell  was  you  doin'?"  demand- 
103 


DUNNY 

ed  King.     "Look  at  you!     Look  at  the  candy! 
What  we  goin'  to  do?" 

"Do?  Why,  it's  plumb  pizened!"  declared 
one  of  the  men. 

"I  didn't  mean  to — I  must  have  fell  asleep," 
answered  Tid,  still  fervently  clutching  the  rim 
of  the  pan  with  both  his  hands,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  metal  hat.  "I'm  stuck,  and  it's  gitting  harder 
all  the  time." 

"Yes,  and  what's  the  use  of  tryin'  to  save 
the  candy  now?"  demanded  Henry  Dole.  "It's 
spoiled  and  ruined  forever!" 

"I  don't  see  why,"  said  Jimmie  Sutt.  "We 
ought  to  be  able  to  git  it  off  of  Tid  all  right,  and 
a  little  bit  of  hair-oil  ain't  so  bad.  We'd  have 
to  grease  our  hands  to  pull  it,  anyhow." 

"Don't  you  pull  it  again!  Don't  you  touch 
it!"  cried  Tid,  retreating  backward  from  the 
savagely  disappointed  group.  "You'll  have  to 
take  it  off  easy." 

"We've  got  to  git  it  off  the  best  way  we  kin. 
You  ain't  agoin'  to  hog  it  all,"  said  Malin 
Crowe.  "It's  too  darn  good  to  be  wasted,  and 
I  ain't  had  a  smell.  And  we  needn't  tell  nobody 
nuthin'  about  Tid's  hair." 

"It's  all  the  molasses  I  had,"  said  Jimmie 
Sutt.  "Of  all  the  rotten  shames  I  even  seen, 
this  is  the  worst." 

104 


A  SURPRISE -PARTY 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  King;  "we  can't  lift  it 
off.  the  way  it  is,  but  a  little  bit  of  water  would 
loosen  her  up  and  never  hurt  the  candy  to 
speak  of.  It's  awful  hard  to  spoil  good  molasses 
candy.  So,  Tid,  you  set  down,  and  we'll  throw 
a  little  water  up  around  your  hair  and  wash  her 
loose." 

"That's  it.  I  knowed  we  could  think  up  a 
way  to  git  it  off  all  right,"  said  Dole,  more 
hopefully.  "Where's  the  dipper?" 

Not  without  misgivings,  Tid  sat  down,  still 
holding  to  the  pan  with  steadfast  purpose,  and 
King  fetched  the  dipper,  filled  with  water.  He 
placed  it  on  the  table  and  looked  up  under  the 
rim  of  the  pan,  the  better  to  direct  his  liberating 
efforts. 

"Stuck  all  round,  hard  as  rushes  in  the  ice," 
he  announced;  "but  I  guess  this  '11  fetch  her." 

Taking  the  dipper  in  his  hand,  he  dashed  the 
water  upward,  in  under  the  pan,  with  violent 
directness.  Instantly  Tid  sprang  to  his  feet, 
gasping,  half  drowned,  and  frantic. 

"Help!"  he  yelled.  "Help!  Oh,  Lord!  Oh, 
where's — a  towel?" 

"Set  down!"  commanded  Thomas  King. 
"You  ain't  in  swimmin'.  Let  us  see  if  the 
candy's  got  softer." 

Tid  was  plumped  down  in  his  chair  and  the 

s  105 


DUNNY 

boys  tried  to  urge  his  hair  and  the  candy  to 
part.  But,  except  for  the  shallowest  film  of 
softened  stuff  on  its  surface,  the  confection  was 
quite  as  adamantine  as  before.  Tid  yelled  and 
fought  as  they  tried  to  take  it  off,  and  finally 
escaped  to  the  end  of  the  room,  holding  to  the 
pan  upon  his  head. 

"I've  got  some  rights!"  he  shouted—  "I've 
got  some  rights!  and  it  won't  come  off  without 
my  head." 

"We've  got  to  wet  her  again,"  declared  Jim- 
mie  Sutt.  "Maybe  two  or  three  times  will  do 
the  biz." 

"I  ain't  going  to  let  you  douse  me  again  for 
all  the  candy  in  the  world,"  said  Tid.  "Some 
kinds  of  candy  ain't  worth  it,  and,  anyway,  I 
don't  believe  this  is  extra  good.  I  can  taste  it, 
running  down  my  face." 

"You're  tastin'  more  face  than  anything  else, 
and  of  course  that's  pretty  fermented,"  answer 
ed  Henry  Dole.  "You  bet  that  candy's  worth 
savin'!" 

Tid  was  therefore  persuaded  to  undergo  one 
more  attempt  at  the  water-cure,  which  shocked 
him  even  more  than  the  first.  Drenched,  drip 
ping  with  sticky  ooze  that  trickled  from  the 
candy  down  across  his  countenance  like  muddy 
tears,  the  little  cobbler  was  a  saddening  specta- 
106 


A  SURPRISE -PARTY 

cle  on  whom  his  companions  gazed  with  min 
gled  indignation  and  despair,  since  the  candy 
still  adhered  to  its  own. 

"We  can't  do  it  that  way,"  agreed  Thomas 
King,  when  Tid  had  shrieked  out  a  wild  refusal 
to  submit  to  one  more  trial  of  the  bath;  "but 
we  might  be  able  to  chip  it  out  with  a  hatchet 
and  save  the  pieces." 

"No,  you  don't!"  said  Tid.  "You'll  want  to 
put  in  some  giant  -  powder  next.  You  fellers 
think  I'm  just  a  plaything  —  that's  what's  the 
matter!" 

"Huh!"  said  Malin  Crowe,  whose  mind  was 
working  peculiarly.  "By  gum!" 

"I  don't  see  why  we  need  no  candy  for  the 
party  nohow,"  said  Dole,  becoming  discouraged 
anew.  "Can't  we  git  along  without  it,  and  let 
Tid  take  it  home?" 

"Oh,  hang  the  supprise-party  to  a  sour-apple- 
tree!"  answered  Thomas  King.  "I  was  goin' 
to  work  up  a  genuine  supprise,  but  Julia  Fother- 
gill  is  gittin'  so  stuck  on  snide,  tin-horn  heroes 
in  ten-cent  novels  that  she  don't  know  a  good 
thing  when  it  bumps  her  house." 

"You  bet  she  don't,"  agreed  Jimmie  Sutt. 
"I  know  all  about  that  myself."  And  he  wink 
ed  with  profound  significance. 

"Yep,  I  got  a  dose  to-night  myself,"  admitted 
107 


DUNNY 

Malin  Crowe.  "She  ain't  got  no  use  fer  any 
of  the  gang,  unless  it's —  Say,  King,  come  over 
here  a  minute.  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

The  two  retired  to  a  corner.  Meantime,  Tid 
was  holding  to  the  rim  of  his  pan  in  fear  his 
companions  might  wrest  the  candy  from  him 
still  by  some  violent  manoeuvre.  Sutt  and  Dole 
were  utterly  despondent.  After  a  moment  of 
consultation,  Crowe  and  King  summoned  all  but 
Tid  to  their  corner. 

"Say,  boys,"  said  Crowe,  sotto-voce,  "it  seems 
like  we  all  got  left  on  Julia  Fothergill,  and  I  got 
it  last,  and  she  gave  herself  plumb  away  to-night 
and  said  old  Tid  had  bin  and  asked  her  first  of 
all  to  be  his  blushin'  bride.  And  she  made  a 
crack  about  him  bein'  a  prince  or  dook  in  dis 
guise.  So  me  and  King  is  goin'  right  down  to 
fetch  her  up  here  to  the  shack  and  let  her  see 
the  dook  in  all  his  glory.  And  if  that  don't 
cook  somebody's  goose  and  give  'em  a  bang-up 
supprise-party,  why,  I'll  eat  your  hat  raw,  with 
out  no  gravy  nor  salt.  So  keep  him  here  guess- 
in',  and  we'll  be  back  in  less  than  half  a  shake." 

Tid  became  suspicious  without  delay.  He 
still  believed  the  boys  attached  an  undue  value 
to  the  candy.  King  and  Crowe  departed  forth 
with,  and  Sutt  and  Dole  declared  they  had  gone 
on  a  scheme  to  save  the  confection  by  a  perfect- 
108 


A  SURPRISE -PARTY 

ly  painless  process.  Tid,  however,  would  have 
fled  to  his  cabin,  candy,  pan,  and  all,  had  his 
friends  not  prevented  his  retreat. 

The  fire  in  the  stove  subsided,  then  went  out 
altogether.  Tid  was  waxing  wroth  and  worried, 
and  the  whole  affair  was  assuming  an  aspect  of 
gloom  and  alarm,  when  presently  the  door  was 
opened  and  in  came  Julia  Fothergill,  with  King 
and  Crowe  and  three  other  men  of  the  camp, 
who  had  followed  to  behold  the  cobbler's  di 
lemma  and  the  scorn  of  the  woman  who  would 
find  him  so  utterly  absurd. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the  cabin. 
Then  came  the  surprise.  Julia  had  no  sense  of 
humor.  The  rescue  of  Tid  from  cruelty,  op 
pression,  and  wrong  appealed  to  her  womanly 
nature.  His  candy-streaked  countenance  de 
picted  woe  unutterable.  Julia  nearly  cried. 
Then,  wildly  indignant  at  those  she  conceived 
to  be  his  persecutors,  and  filled  with  romantic 
tenderness  and  yearning  over  the  wholly  wretch 
ed  little  cobbler,  she  turned  upon  the  others 
with  a  burst  of  scorn  that  fairly  made  them 
wither  where  they  stood.  In  her  novel  she  had 
read,  three  times  over,  a  truly  pyrotechnic  ex 
plosion  of  wrath  from  the  lips  of  a  heroine, 
majestic  at  the  end  of  most  exasperating  in 
iquities,  and  this,  and  much  more,  she  ve he- 
log 


DUNNY 

mently  discharged,  till  the  candy-makers  crys 
tallized  with  dread. 

"Toads  ye  are,  and  unclean  monsters!"  she 
concluded,  superbly.  "The  low  hyenas  of  the 
jungle,  ashamed  of  nuthin'  mean  or  cowardly, 
and  fillin'  their  carcasses  with  awful  which  the 
king  of  beasts  has  left,  would  creep  from  your 
society  with  loathin'  and  disgust.  Ye  have 
done  your  worst,  ye  have  grovelled  in  the  mire 
and  slime  of  your  own  base  manufacture,  and 
now  ye  are  nipped  in  the  bud.  Outcasts  of 
decency,  ye  can  writhe  underneath  my  con 
tempt!  I  leave  ye  to  your  hellish  joys  and 
devices.  And  don't  you  come  down  to  my  house 
no  more,  for  coyotes  would  be  better  com 
pany,  and  you  make  me  sick  way  down  to  my 
feet!" 

Then,  sweeping  the  cowed  and  smileless  group 
with  one  blasting  glance,  she  placed  her  big  red 
arm  about  the  cobbler's  waist,  and,  with  Tid 
holding  fast  to  the  pan  of  candy  on  his  head, 
strode  proudly  with  him  from  the  cabin. 

And,  strangely  enough,  when  she  had  placed 
the  pan  upon  her  table,  with  Tid  patiently 
crooked  over  above  it,  and  then  with  warm 
water  soaked  him  away  from  the  mess,  as  a 
stamp  is  soaked  from  paper,  the  man  became 
even  more  precious  in  her  sight  than  before, 
no 


A  SURPRISE -PARTY 

while  the  rich  confection  was  haughtily  thrown 
outside  upon  the  unclean  earth. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that,  on  the  evening 
previously  scheduled  for  the  surprise  -  party, 
two  gay  persons  only  marched  upon  the  home 
of  the  Hanks  with  festive  intentions.  One 
was  the  radiant  Miss  Julia  Fothergill,  bearing 
a  large  frosted  cake  in  her  two  red  hands;  the 
other  was  Tid  the  cobbler,  bearing  a  slightly 
perceptible  fragrance  of  candy  in  his  hair. 


XIII 
CONCERNING   SYLVIA'S   FATHER 


ESPITE  the  fact  that  during  the  fol 
lowing  week  she  was  troubled  by 
fewer  admirers  than  usual,  Sylvia 
was  far  from  being  contented.  Her 
affairs  with  Jerry  were  disturbing;  a 
settlement  of  her  doubts  and  ques 
tionings  seemed  even  more  remote  and  impos 
sible  than  before.  Jerry  had  come  to  see  her 
only  two  or  three  times,  and  on  each  occasion 
had  cautiously  avoided  all  allusions  to  their 
half-understood  relationship.  She  thought  it  a 
part  of  his  plan  to  avoid  the  subject  for  a  month, 
yet  she  felt  there  was  something  sinister  lurking 
behind  his  behavior. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  man  was  consumed 
by  impatience.  He  loved  her  more  deeply, 
more  strongly  than  ever.  Both  the  tenderness 
and  the  passion  of  his  feeling  increased  with  ev 
ery  day.  In  his  fiercer  moods  he  could  readily 
have  slain  a  rival  with  his  hands,  yet  his  gener- 

112 


CONCERNING  SYLVIA'S  FATHER 

ous  emotions  of  protection  and  care  succeeded 
his  stronger  moods  with  exalting,  refining  cer 
tainty.  He  was  trying  to  forget  that  day  of 
Kennedy's  visit,  but  his  nature  was  a  battle 
ground  on  which  emotions  fought.  Daily,  how 
ever,  he  felt  he  was  gaining  on  Sylvia's  sense  of 
acceptance.  He  was  jealously  watchful,  sensi 
tive,  and  suspicious,  however,  on  the  slightest 
provocation.  He  watched  her  alertly,  yet  there 
was  nothing  concerning  himself  he  would  not  at 
any  time  have  sacrificed  to  add  to  her  personal 
happiness,  so  long  as  such  a  happiness  did  not 
involve  her  surrender  to  another  man. 

Doubtless  something  of  Jerry's  arguments,  or 
feelings  of  ownership,  concerning  herself  and  Jit- 
tie  Dunny  crept  upon  Sylvia,  by  way  of  those 
subtle,  invisible  antennae  of  a  woman's  intuition. 
Howsoever  it  was  that  she  caught  them,  the 
thoughts  in  his  mind  were  more  or  less  clearly 
presented  to  her  understanding,  and  they  net 
tled  her  nature.  She  began  to  fret  over  every 
new  day  that  added  ties  of  obligation  between 
herself  and  the  mountaineer. 

She  had  come  to  the  West  on  his  money;  she 
was  living  here  now  by  his  provision.  He  was 
kind  in  a  hundred  ways  of  sincere  and  wholly 
unconscious  service;  he  never  by  any  chance 
permitted  her  to  think  he  held  her  in  his  debt; 
"3 


DUNNY 

he  was  jolly,  loving,  and  indulgent  to  Dunny, 
who  gave  him  a  fond  little  heartful  of  affection; 
yet  rebellion,  of  an  indefinable,  not-to-be-located 
sort,  was  in  her  being. 

She  wished  her  feeling  could  be  changed;  she 
honestly  prayed  that  something  more  than  mere 
friendship  might  be  engendered  between  herself 
and  this  splendid  man.  But  a  number  of  ele 
ments  interposed  to  make  it  impossible.  First, 
there  was  this  dependence — this  helplessness — 
beneath  his  fostering  care.  She  wished  to  be 
free  of  this,  to  choose  as  her  mind  and  heart 
should  prompt.  Then  there  was  Allan  Ken 
nedy.  All  that  she  could  do  was  not  sufficient 
to  drive  young  happiness  out  of  her  heart  so 
often  as  thoughts  of  Allan  were  astray  in  her 
mind.  And  these  were  constantly  rushing,  in 
new  ways  of  joy,  throughout  her  being. 

In  her  dreams  she  and  Allan  met  very  often, 
where  the  trees  stood  guard  above  their  tryst, 
and  she  granted  him  kinder  looks  and  words, 
at  parting,  than  she  had  in  fact.  Her  heart 
was  out  with  the  birds,  whensoever  she  forgot 
to  keep  it  strictly  home,  and  the  song  it  would 
sound  was  a  pagan  to  a  mate. 

These  mingled  feelings  were  upon  her  as  she 
worked  one  morning  in  the  tiny  garden  at  the 
front  of  the  house.  Sunshine  seemed  to  come 
114 


CONCERNING  SYLVIA'S  FATHER 

in  ever  -  increasing  impulses  out  of  the  sky;  it 
lay  upon  the  earth  as  gold  in  essence — gold  made 
breathable  and  sweet.  The  air  was  barely  astir, 
as  if  it  moved  about  like  a  fragrant  presence, 
visiting  new-sprung  shoots  of  green  and  encour 
aging  the  tender  leaves  upon  the  trees.  Chickens 
were  doing  their  best  to  carol  of  comfort  and 
content.  Delicate  young  summer  had  come,  a 
week  before  her  actual  time,  and  all  the  world 
was  giving  her  welcome. 

A  shadow  fell  on  the  earth  where  Sylvia  was 
kneeling.  She  looked  up  quickly  and  beheld 
Jerry  Kirk  smiling  down  upon  her  in  gladness. 
He  looked  so  big  and  wholesome  and  good  that 
she  could  not  resist  the  answering  smile  that 
came  to  her  eyes.  Moreover,  nature  was  mak 
ing  all  things  sweet  of  temper  and  brotherly  of 
thought. 

Jerry  knelt  beside  her,  helping  with  the  seed- 
planting  going  on  so  deftly.  He  always  seemed 
to  know  the  way.  to  be  of  actual  assistance;  he 
made  no  irritating  blunders.  She  liked  him 
very  much  indeed  as  a  fine  companion,  to  be 
trusted  in  his  strength,  to  be  honored  in  his 
stanch  integrity  of  spirit,  thought,  and  purpose. 

"Gardening?"  he  said.     "I  kind  of  thought 
you'd  be  a  girl  who'd  like  to  make  things  grow 
and  add  something  pretty  to  the  world." 
"5 


DUNNY 

"I  have  to,"  she  said. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  answered.  "Such  a 
day  as  this  I  feel  there  ain't  any  way  in  the 
world  for  me  to  be  happy  fast  enough  or  to  let 
out  a  half  that  crowds  inside  me  here,"  and  he 
gave  his  characteristic  nudge  to  his  breast.  "I 
don't  know  what  to  do,  a  day  like  this,  to  keep 
from  being  a  boy  again  —  going  barefoot  and 
ragged  and  whistling." 

"Dunny  has  taken  off  his  shoes  and  stock 
ings,"  she  said.  "I  expect  he'll  cut  his  feet 
and  stub  his  toes  all  to  pieces." 

"Do  him  good,"  said  Jerry.  "How's  his  bur 
ro,  Jack?" 

"Why,  he  seems  to  be  cured  and  getting  as 
strong  and  lively  as  a  cricket.  Dunny  wants  to 
ride  him  now,  but  he  can't  get  Mr.  Flack  to  lead 
him  around." 

"I'll  do  it  myself,"  volunteered  the  moun 
taineer.  "Where  is  Dunny  now?" 

"Down  at  Mr.  Flack's,  I  think,"  answered  Syl 
via,  patting  down  the  earth  with  her  dainty 
hands.  "He'll  be  home  by-and-by." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  wait?"  inquired  Jerry, 
suddenly  excited  by  the  thought  that  she  had 
almost  spoken  as  if  to  detain  him  at  her  side. 
"Shall  I  stay  here  with  you  till  he  comes?" 

Sylvia  saw  that  his  big,  rough  hand  was  trem- 
116 


CONCERNING  SYLVIA'S  FATHER 

bling.  Her  cheeks  were  rosily  burning,  and  her 
heart,  like  Jerry's,  was  beating  rapidly,  though 
not  for  a  similar  reason. 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "I  have  wanted  to  speak 
to  you  about  a  matter  for  some  little  time." 

Jerry's  agitation  increased.  He  knew  she 
must  hear  the  strokes  of  his  heart. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said,  a  little  huskily. 

"It's  about  my  father,"  she  told  him,  looking 
up  and  meeting  his  gaze  for  a  moment.  "I've 
wanted  to  ask  you,  Jerry,  whether  he  owned 
any  property  or  not,  after  all  his  years  of  labor, 
out  here  in  the  mountains." 

The  question  meant  a  great  deal  more  to  her 
than  she  wished  the  man  to  know.  Her  excite 
ment  was  therefore  considerable,  though  held  in 
restraint. 

Jerry  had  hoped  for  and  expected  something 
else.  He  was  disappointed  to  have  her  speak 
on  a  subject  so  foreign  to  his  thoughts,  and  yet 
he  was  slightly  relieved,  for  she  might  have  been 
about  to  ask  to  be  released  from  her  promise. 

"I  ought  to  have  brought  that  up  before," 
he  said.  "But  I  never  got  around  to  it,  some 
way,  perhaps  because  there  ain't  a  lot  to  say." 

"Then — he  didn't  have  a  thing?"  she  said; 
and  he  thought  her  face  somewhat  paled. 

"Why  —  it  ain't  so  much  exactly  that,"  he 
117 


DUNNY 

explained,  "as  it  is  that  nobody  seems  to  know. 
He  was  killed  so  suddenly  he  didn't  get  a  chance 
to  talk  about  affairs,  and  he  only  had  about 
enough  money  around  to  be  buried  on.  In  fact, 
the  boys  helped  out  on  that  a  little,  and  nothing 
has  ever  turned  up  since  to  show  what  he  might 
have  been  doing  in  the  way  of  getting  hold  of 
property." 

Jerry  himself  had  been  the  one  who  "helped 
out"  with  money  for  Weaver's  funeral,  and  of 
this  the  girl  had  a  hint,  through  her  keen  intui 
tion.  She  was  disappointed  now,  however,  by 
Jerry's  reply.  She  had  hoped  so  fervently  there 
might  be  something  on  which  she  and  Dunny 
could  rely  for  a  little  independence.  She  had 
chafed  with  impatience  to  think  of  all  they  were 
taking  from  Jerry,  especially  now  that  her  heart 
was  refusing  to  respond  to  his  wishes.  She  felt 
under  deeper  obligations  than  before. 

"Then — he  didn't  leave  a  thing,"  she  repeat 
ed.  "He  put  in  all  his  time — for  nothing?" 

"It  really  don't  seem  as  if  he  could  have  been 
like  that,"  big  Jerry  assured  her.  "He  worked 
good  and  hard,  and  he  never  wasted  his  money 
on  any  kind  of  foolishness;  but  Henry  was  a 
close-mouthed  man,  Sylvia,  even  with  me.  I've 
thought  all  along  there  might  be  something  turn 
up,  after  all." 

118 


CONCERNING  SYLVIA'S  FATHER 

"But  there  hasn't  been  anything?"  she  said, 
in  a  feeling  of  helplessness  he  somewhat  felt. 
She  was  standing  up,  and  so  was  he. 

"Don't  feel  harsh,"  he  begged  her,  tenderly. 
"Your  father  was  a  mighty  good  man,  even  if 
he  did  think  Craig  was  twice  the  man  for  busi 
ness  that  I  ever  was  or  could  be,  Sylvia.  He 
may  have  left  some  information  with  Craig,  but, 
if  he  did,  my  partner  ain't  seen  fit  to  talk  it 
over.  I'll  ask  him  about  it,  anyway." 

She  felt  that  Jerry  was  holding  out  a  hope 
that  he  himself  was  aware  was  unreliable.  A 
something  akin  to  resentment,  to  think  her 
father  could  have  been  so  utterly  improvident, 
burned  for  a  moment  in  her  mind.  Then  she 
swiftly  felt  ashamed  of  this,  and  yearned  over 
the  father  who  had  lost  his  life,  toiling  here 
alone  so  many  years,  and  dying  here  alone, 
so  far  away  from  wife  and  home  and  chil 
dren. 

"Mother  couldn't  endure  this  altitude  or  the 
loneliness,"  she  said,  by  way  of  excuse  for  the 
wife  who  had  gone  back  East  and  left  Henry 
Weaver  to  work  out  his  fate.  "It  wasn't  really 
all  her — fault." 

"It  wasn't  anybody's  fault,"  answered  Jerry, 
who  understood  and  knew  the  way  to  give  her 
comfort.  "So  I  wouldn't  worry,  Sylvia,  not 
119 


DUNNY 

while  you've  got  little  Dunny,  and — and  seeds 
to  plant,  and  all  the  rest." 

"Here's  Dunny  coming  now,"  she  answered. 
"And — he's  got  a  sore  toe  already." 

Dunny  was  limping  energetically.  He  no 
more  than  saw  the  form  of  Jerry,  however,  than 
he  ran  towards  him  with  a  fine  indifference  for 
wounded  feet. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  I  cut  my  toe  and  Tid  fixed  it  all 
up  bully,  with  tobakker  and  a  rag!"  he  called, 
in  boyish  pride,  as  he  darted  in  at  the  gate. 
"Look — what  a  great  big  rag!"  and  he  halted 
and  held  it  up  as  if  it  had  been  a  gem  of  price 
less  worth. 

"Golly!  That's  great!"  said  Jerry,  in  ad 
miration  that  he  knew  was  better  than  a 
balm. 

"Tid  can  fix  up  anything,"  announced  the 
small  adventurer.  "But  he  won't  take  me  rid 
ing  on  my  donkey." 

"Well,  you  come  along  with  me.  We'll  see 
about  that  donkey,"  answered  the  mountaineer., 
and,  taking  up  the  little  chap,  he  felt  the  stout 
little  arms  go  trustingly  about  his  neck,  and 
happiness,  pure  as  that  of  heaven,  welled  in  his 
heart. 

Sylvia  watched  the  two  as  Jerry  strode  away. 
Her  eyes  abruptly  filled.  The  bright-faced  little 
120 


CONCERNING  SYLVIA'S  FATHER 

Dunny  turned  and  smiled  upon  her  from  his 
perch. 

"Jerry  knows  how,"  he  called.  "Jerry's  go 
ing  to  give  me  a  ride." 

Jerry  gave  them  everything!  Jerry  it  was  to 
whom  they  owed  the  very  all  of  their  happiness, 
out  here  in  this  Western  world,  so  close  to  nature 
and  to  God!  How  good  he  was,  and  generous 
and  comforting!  A  tenderness  towards  him, 
that  was  almost  love,  crept  upon  Sylvia  quietly. 

"I  ought  to  marry  him,  after  all,"  she  told 
herself,  in  peace  that  calmed  her  nature.  "Poor, 
dear  Jerry." 

A  faint  and  tender  happiness,  as  new  as  a 
babe,  stole  throughout  her  bosom. 


XIV 

DUNNY   HAS  AN   ADVENTURE 


HAT  next  bright  week  of  summery 
days  and  evenings  was  a  happy  time 
for  little  Dunny,  and  for  Jerry  as  well. 
Sylvia  felt  herself  drifting  so  calmly 
along,  in  her  newer  welcome  of  the 
thought  of  marrying  Jerry,  that  she 
could  not  escape  the  spell  that  nature  was  weav 
ing  over  all  the  living  world. 

And  yet  there  was  nothing  much  that  was 
different.  Jerry  was  keeping  his  word  concern 
ing  further  talk  upon  the  subject  of  his  agree 
ment  with  Sylvia,  and  this  made  her  like  him 
the  more.  His  eyes  were  brighter  than  ever 
before,  his  ruddy  face  was  glowing  like  a  mirror 
of  his  heart.  Youth  seemed  smiling  upon  him, 
day  by  day.  His  iron-gray  hair  and  graying 
beard  appeared  to  be  merely  color  attributes, 
belonging  to  the  man  without  relation  to  his 
age.  He  was  vigorous,  tireless,  full  of  energy 
— a  splendid  example  of  mountain  manhood. 
122 


DUNNY   HAS  AN  ADVENTURE 

Had  he  only  known  it,  these  were  the  days 
when  his  ardor  should  have  been  unleashed. 
He  was  growing  more  easy  to  love.  Every  hour 
he  spent  with  little  Dunny,  telling  him  stories 
or  riding  him  gayly  about  on  the  mended  burro, 
endeared  him  to  Sylvia's  heart  and  gave  him  a 
firmer  hold  upon  her  affections. 

He  had  bought  a  tiny  saddle  and  bridle  for 
the  donkey,  and  these  little  Dunny  could  man 
age  to  put  upon  his  Jack  all  by  himself.  The 
big  man's  joy  was  limitless  when  he  and  Dunny 
and  the  burro  could  come  upon  Sylvia,  wander 
ing  happily  about,  like  a  woodland  sylph,  among 
the  trees  of  the  canon.  At  such  a  moment  he 
was  prone  to  tell  the  little  rider  to  guide  his 
donkey  about  by  himself,  while  he  and  Sylvia 
watched  him  together. 

At  some  such  moment  he  should  boldly  have 
taken  the  pretty,  white  hand,  so  often  near  his 
own,  and  poured  out  a  little  of  the  all  within 
his  heart,  for  nature  was  achieving  half  of  his 
wooing,  these  times,  and  gratitude  was  doing 
almost  as  much,  and  Sylvia  frequently  trembled 
at  the  very  verge  of  an  overwhelming  tenderness 
of  feeling.  But  he  did  not  speak.  In  his  hon 
esty  of  word  and  purpose  he  was  waiting  for  the 
passing  of  the  month  he  had  told  her  she  should 
have. 

123 


DUNNY 

On  a  certain  Wednesday  noon  the  news  was 
brought  to  Tamarack  of  a  stage-robbery,  com 
mitted  the  day  before  with  extraordinary  daring 
and  boldness,  on  the  mountain  road  some  twenty 
miles  from  Millsite,  on  the  summit.  Funds  be 
longing  to  Kirk  &  Craig,  intended  for  their  sum 
mer  operations,  had  been  taken  with  the  box  of 
treasure;  the  express  company  had  sent  a  force 
of  men  to  scour  the  hills  for  the  desperadoes, 
and  intense  excitement  prevailed,  not  only  at 
the  towns  across  the  border  of  Nevada,  but  also 
at  Millsite  as  well. 

Craig  had  sent  a  special  word  to  Jerry,  re 
quiring  his  presence  at  the  summit  camp  at 
once  to  complete  new  arrangements  for  work 
ing  capital. 

Jerry  bade  a  hasty  good-bye  to  Sylvia  and 
Dunny,  riding  on  horseback  to  the  house  for 
the  purpose. 

"I'll  be  back  as  soon  as  possible,"  he  said, 
and  they  saw  him  gallop  away. 

"I'm  going  to  ride  like  that  on  my  donkey 
some  of  these  times,"  announced  little  Dunny, 
in  admiration.  "That's  really,  truly  riding!" 

Sylvia  kissed  him  impulsively. 

"You  like  Jerry,  don't  you,  dear?"  she  said. 

"You  bet!"  answered  Dunny,  emphatically. 
"He  says  I'm  his  pard." 
124 


DUNNY   HAS  AN  ADVENTURE 

"Would  you  like  to  be  his  pard  all  the  time?" 
She  was  rosily  coloring  as  she  asked  the  ques 
tion. 

"Yep,"  said  her  unsuspecting  little  brother. 
"Wouldn't  you?" 

"I — I  don't  know — I  guess  so,"  she  laughed, 
in  some  confusion. 

"Only,  girls  can't  be  pards,  like  us  fellers," 
Dunny  informed  her,  not  without  compassion. 
"They  don't  know  how." 

"Maybe  they  don't,"  she  agreed,  more  to 
herself  than  to  him,  "but  —  maybe  they  can 
learn." 

She  was  glad  to  find  she  felt  a  genuine  regret 
at  Jerry's  departure.  She  had  grown  in  the 
way  that  permitted  her  to  see  the  splendid, 
enduring  youth  in  him  still,  to  see  the  honesty 
and  tenderness  that  must  have  endeared  him 
to  her  father.  He  appeared  at  last  to  be  ap 
proximating  the  Jerry  she  had  more  than  half 
created  from  the  letters  and  the  picture  that 
had  once  presented  all  of  the  man  that  could 
be  presented  from  a  distance. 

She  had  wanted  from  the  first  to  be  honest 
and  to  keep  her  promise.  Her  scruples  now 
were  satisfied,  and  satisfaction  of  her  nature 
would  come  a  little  later,  she  felt  convinced. 
She  sang  a  little  at  her  work  in  the  garden ;  her 
125 


DUNNY 

heart  was  so  thoroughly  in  tune  with  all  the  joys 
of  burgeoning  summer  that  happiness  chose  her 
for  its  natural  companion. 

Meantime,  little  Dunny  was  presently  alive  to 
the  fact  that  his  afternoon  ride  on  the  burro, 
under  Jerry's  charge,  was  a  vanished  delight. 
Moreover,  Jerry  might  be  gone  for  several  days, 
and  what  if  a  fellow  should  forget  the  way  to 
saddle  up  a  donkey,  or  to  clamber  on  its  back, 
or  to  steer  with  the  reins?  In  a  childish  alarm 
at  the  bare  possibilities,  the  little  man  proceeded 
at  once  to  the  stable  and  made  his  burro  ready 
for  service. 

This  consumed  at  least  thirty  minutes  of 
time,  when  Sylvia  called  him  to  lunch.  He  ate 
very  little,  however,  in  his  fever  to  be  riding 
Jack  all  by  himself,  and  he  was  therefore  pres 
ently  a-straddle  on  the  burro's  back  and  guiding 
that  contented  little  animal  towards  the  trail 
that  led  to  the  mountains. 

All  went  well  for  fully  twenty  minutes.  By 
the  end  of  this  time  the  burro  had  climbed  a 
little  way  up  on  the  first  easy  slope  that  pre 
pared  the  way  for  the  massive  uprise  of  the 
range.  Here  Dunny  halted  him,  looking  back 
and  wishing  that  some  one  could  see  him  in 
his  glory. 

He  had  left  his  hat  behind,  in  his  haste,  so 
126 


DUNNY   HAS  AN   ADVENTURE 

that  now  the  sun  was  free  to  gild  his  shining 
hair  with  the  brightest  of  tints.  His  winsome 
little  face  was  particularly  beautiful,  colored  so 
highly  by  excitement  and  pleasure,  in  addition 
to  its  natural  rosiness  of  health.  He  seemed  a 
very  robust,  brave  little  figure  indeed;  and  his 
animation  was  increased  at  once  when  he  sud 
denly  thought  of  turning  back  and  riding  down 
to  let  Tid  Flack  behold  him  mounted  and  trav 
elling  about  alone. 

Unfortunately  for  his  plans,  the  trail  employ 
ed  by  the  Chinese  woodsmen,  driving  their 
donkeys  to  and  from  the  mountains,  lay  but 
a  stone's -throw  away,  and  down  its  winding 
decline  a  train  of  burdened  animals  was  coming 
now.  On  the  air  was  wafted  a  scent  that  Jack 
not  only  detected,  but  comprehended  and  de 
tested — a  mingled  scent  of  wood  and  Chinese 
driver. 

Jack  turned  tail  towards  the  rapidly  ap 
proaching  train  of  animals,  and  thus  headed 
straight  away  from  Tamarack.  He  started  off, 
on  his  own  account,  despite  the  protests  of  his 
diminutive  rider. 

Then   came  the  harsh,   strident   call  of  the 

Chinese  woodsman,  goading  his  creatures  to  a 

greater  speed.     Everything  sensitive  in  Jack's 

small  being  quivered  with  dread.     Memories  of 

127 


DUNNY 

hardships,  cruelties,  and  sufferings  unspeakable 
crowded  swiftly  upon  the  limited  intelligence  of 
the  once-enslaved  little  creature.  Terrified  and 
fearful  of  recapture,  he  fled  along  the  trail  and 
around  the  huge,  protecting  shoulder  of  the  hill 
on  a  trot  that  jolted  little  Dunny  half  out  of  his 
senses. 

The  astonished  bit  of  a  man  did  his  utmost 
to  restrain  Mr.  Jack,  or  to  turn  him  about,  but 
without  avail.  A  fear  of  re-enlistment  in  the 
ranks  of  donkeys  that  toiled  for  a  heathen  had 
taken  possession  of  the  now  restrengthened 
burro,  and  he  meant  to  make  the  most  of  his 
freedom. 

"Jack!"  called  Dunny,  imperiously — "Jack! — 
you  whoa!  You  stop!  You  better — stop!" 

The  childish  voice  rang  out  in  futile  orders 
and  futile  threatening.  Jack  went  on,  still  trot 
ting  up  the  trail,  and  so  to  the  great  ravine, 
and  along  the  narrow  path  once  employed  by 
the  lumbermen,  and  past  the  trees  that  grew  by 
the  stream,  with  never  a  thought,  apparently, 
of  halting  again. 

Dunny  was  not  in  the  least  alarmed  as  yet. 
He  was  far  too  busy  giving  orders  and  holding 
to  the  saddle  to  spare  the  time  for  anything 
less  important.  He  had  previously  somewhat 
enjoyed  a  momentary  trot  at  the  side  of  Jerry, 
128 


DUNNY   HAS  AN  ADVENTURE 

but  this  present  experience  took  the  wind 
quite  out  of  a  fellow's  body,  and  the  fun 
was  too  prolonged.  He  continued  to  call  his 
commands,  between  the  jolts,  but  he  called  to 
ears  preoccupied  with  the  sound  of  that  Chinese 
note  of  driving. 

For  nearly  a  mile  the  burro  trotted  along  in 
a  species  of  panic.  Then  he  settled  down  to  a 
rapid  walk,  and  kept  deliberately  marching  on 
ward  and  upward,  putting  space  between  him 
self  and  the  Chinese  fiend  with  a  thoroughly 
donkeyfied  determination. 

Dunny  was  bouncing  no  longer.  He  there 
fore  devoted  his  strength  to  an  effort  to  halt 
the  donkey  and  turn  him  back  towards  the 
town.  Jack  refused  either  to  stop  or  to  head 
the  other  way.  The  helpless  little  rider  scolded 
frantically;  he  hauled  on  the  reins  with  all  his 
might;  he  cried,  in  vexation  and  coming  fear, 
but  Jack  went  on. 

They  passed  a  long-deserted  cabin,  where  the 
woodsmen  once  had  camped.  They  skirted  the 
base  of  a  towering  cliff  of  granite,  where  the 
shadows  lay  so  deep  and  silent  that  the  little 
man  was  awed. 

Into  the  sombre  fastness  of  the  range  they 
continued,  Dunny  now  almost  speechless  with 
alarm.  The  place  was  nearly  as  still  and  dread- 
129 


DUNNY 

ful  as  that  chasm  in  the  snow  where  once  he 
had  travelled  to  hunt  for  Sylvia.  An  overpow 
ering  sense  of  aloneness  came  upon  him.  The 
sun  was  shining  down  in  splendor,  the  water  was 
dashing  and  frothing  by  in  its  race  to  get  out  of 
the  region,  and  the  vast  ravine  seemed  to  com 
pass  them  all  about.  It  was  terribly  huge,  that 
mountain  universe,  and  where  was  town  and 
Sylvia  ? 

No  longer  was  the  burro  fleeing  from  the 
Chinaman;  he  was  vividly  recalling  the  country 
whence  he  had  come,  a  year  before.  It  was  over 
the  summit,  far  away,  in  a.  land  of  pleasure. 
It  was  where  this  very  trail  was  leading,  and  in 
two  days  of  travel  they  would  certainly  arrive 
at  its  pastures  of  greenery.  Doggedly  the  creat 
ure  continued  on  the  way. 

Dunny  was  tired.  He  hauled  at  the  bridle- 
reins  from  time  to  time,  but  now  with  weary 
little  hands  that  were  powerless  to  affect  the 
burro. 

"Please,  Jack — please!"  he  called,  in  his  grow 
ing  fear  of  the  mighty  place. 

He  thought  of  Jerry,  and  cried  out  his  name, 
with  that  of  Sylvia.  Persistently  the  donkey 
continued  up  the  trail. 

An  hour,  two  hours  were  gone,  and  still  the 
burro  climbed  the  great  ravine,  with  his  fright- 
130 


DUNNY  HAS  AN   ADVENTURE 

ened,  helpless  little  master  on  his  back — the 
little  master  now  become  a  captive,  a  prison 
er  carried  bodily  away.  Dunny  was  terrified. 
He  sat  in  the  saddle,  holding  on  with  all  the 
strength  remaining  in  his  arms  and  staring  in 
childish  dread  into  deepening  shadows,  and  at 
sombre  castles  of  rock  in  masses  suggestive  of 
architectural  chaos,  ruin,  and  desolation. 

The  wind  was  stirring  on  the  snowy  peaks, 
and  a  chill  came  down  into  the  gorges  and  can 
ons  of  the  hills.  The  sun  was  declining  rapid 
ly.  Dunny  feared  to  raise  his  voice  in  calling, 
and  could  only  hold  on  in  his  helplessness.  He 
dared  not  slip  to  the  ground  and  let  his  burro 
go  on  alone  and  leave  him  here  deserted.  He 
could  not  think,  except  on  subjects  that  terri 
fied  him  further. 

They  came  to  the  summit,  and  on  and  on 
went  the  burro,  following  down  through  cavern 
ous  deeps,  and  across  a  patch  of  snow,  and  past 
a  place  where  fire  once  had  swept,  leaving  the 
stark,  gaunt  ghosts  of  trees  to  stand  on  the  hill, 
a  grisly  company. 

It  was  four  o'clock,  and  then  it  was  five,  and 
Jack  never  halted  for  so  much  as  a  nibble  at 
the  mountain  grass.  There  were  granite  rocks 
in  huge  disorder;  there  were  lands  laid  nude  of 
trees  by  workmen  gone  to  newer  fields,  and  the 


DUNNY 

stumps  were  like  a  herd  of  bears,  all  darkly 
dotting  the  region. 

The  dusk  had  come  as  the  burro  trudged 
through  a  narrow  defile  and  presently  emerged 
upon  a  large,  flat  stretch  of  land  where  bowlders 
and  small,  scrub  timber  divided  the  soil  between 
them.  Darkness  was  giving  life  to  things  in 
animate;  the  world  was  populous  with  silent, 
dreadful  beings. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  silence  rang  a  human 
voice. 

"Stop! — pull  up!"  came  the  gruff  command. 
"Pull  up,  or  I'm  goin'  to  shoot!" 

Dunny  could  make  no  outcry  in  his  fear. 
The  burro  paid  no  heed,  after  starting  in  the 
first  galvanic  way  of  surprise. 

A  blinding  flash  and  the  deafening  roar  of  a 
shot-gun,  fired  from  the  shrubbery,  promptly 
followed.  The  man  who  had  fired  had  aimed 
his  gun  ahead  of  the  donkey's  nose,  to  fetch 
him  up.  A  part  of  the  charge  struck  the  gray 
little  creature  in  the  head  and  put  out  both  its 
eyes. 

Half  stunned,  it  stumbled,  and  in  terror  un- 
namable  Dunny  fell  to  the  earth,  and,  striking 
his  head  on  a  rock,  was  instantly  unconscious. 


XV 


IN   THE   CAMP  OF  THE   DESPERADOES 


T  the  sound  of  the  shot  there  were 
other  sounds,  of  smothered  voices  in 
excited  ordering  and  calling.  From 
somewhere  near  a  number  of  men 
came  stealthily  forward,  bending  low 
and  darting  to  cover,  each  with  a  gun 
or  pistol  in  his  hand. 

The  man  who  had  fired  still  remained  in  con 
cealment,  but  he  craned  a  little  forward,  to  see 
what  results  his  marksmanship  had  produced. 
An  ominous  silence  had  succeeded  at  once. 

Dazed  and  helpless,  the  donkey  stood  where 
calamity  had  come  so  abruptly  upon  him.  He 
was  blind  and  his  head  was  bleeding,  but  the 
pellets  of  lead  had  made  but  shallow  wounds 
that  were  far  from  being  fatal.  The  strain  of 
the  silence  became  unbearable. 

"Bill!"  said  a  voice  that  was  gruff  and  deep. 
"Over  here,"  replied  the  man  who  had  done 
the  shooting. 

133 


DUNNY 

The  voice  inquired,  "What's  up?" 
"Man  on  horseback  come  up  the  trail,"  an 
swered  "Bill"  from  his  cover.     "Maybe  only  a 
burro.     Don't  see  any  one  else." 
"Git  him?"  asked  the  voice. 
"He  fell,  and  the  burro's  lookin'  dizzy." 
A  sound  of  heavy  walking  through  the  shrub 
bery  came,  and  the  spokesman  cautiously  ap 
proached  the  trail. 

"Come  on!"  he  said  to  the  others,  and  unseen 
beings,  nearing  the  spot,  could  be  heard  on 
either  side. 

"Burro,  sure  enough,"  announced  the  gruff- 
voiced  man,  who  was  now  within  a  rod  of  the 
spot  where  Dunny  lay.  "Where's  the  man?" 
"In  the  trail,  off-side  of  the  donkey." 
Moving  alertly,  looking  craftily  about  him, 
the  man  who  evidently  acted  as  a  leader  of  the 
others  now  came  forth  from  the  rocks  and  trees 
holding  a  rifle  in  readiness  for  instant  use.  The 
burro  made  no  attempt  to  escape,  but  stood 
there  slowly  shaking  its  head  from  side  to  side 
in  pain  and  perplexity. 

"Huh!"  said  the  man,  "it's  only  a  kid." 
"Kid,    Larry?"    called    a    third    individual. 
"Sure?" 

"I  didn't  shoot  no  kid,"  protested  the  man 
called  Bill.    "Shot  in  front  of  the  critter's  nose." 
134 


THE  CAMP  OF  THE  DESPERADOES 

Four  dark  forms  emerged  from  hiding. 

"Pretty  little  bareheaded  kid,"  continued  the 
leader,  taking  up  the  small,  limp  form  in  his 
arms.  "He's  hurt,  but  I  can't  just  tell  how  bad." 

"How  in  hell  did  he  come  here?"  asked  a 
roughly  spoken  fellow,  pushing  forward  to  have 
a  look  for  himself. 

"Kid,  sure  enough,"  said  another. 

"Two  of  you  stay  here  and  watch — you,  Bill, 
and  Smoky,"  instructed  the  chief.  "Zack,  you 
lead  the  burro  round  to  the  horses.  Chenook 
and  me  will  take  the  kid  to  the  cabin." 

"Don't  think  there's  nuthin'  else  a-comin'," 
half  objected  Bill,  reloading  his  gun.  "He  must 
have  come  alone." 

"A  little  kid  like  him?"  queried  the  chief. 
"  'Tain't  likely.  You  and  Smoky  watch — that's 
all." 

With  some  sort  of  tenderness  he  carried  the 
helpless  little  figure  through  a  growth  of  stunted 
pine  and  so  to  an  old  log  shanty,  once  a  camp 
for  lumbermen,  but  now  all  but  fallen  in  ruins. 

A  place  more  wretched  than  the  light  of  a 
candle  presently  revealed  inside  the  cabin  would 
be  difficult  to  discover.  There  had  never  been 
but  a  single  room  to  the  hut,  and  half  of  this 
was  now  destroyed  by  a  section  of  the  roof, 
which  the  weight  of  winter  snow  had  broken 
135 


DUNNY 

in  and  borne  to  the  earthen  floor.  Wrecks  of 
several  sleeping-bunks  remained  in  the  end  that 
was  half-way  intact,  and  an  open  chimney, 
rudely  constructed  of  stone,  still  served  for  a 
fire,  in  which,  at  present,  some  meagre  opera 
tions  of  cooking  were  going  forward.  A  few 
dirty  blankets  lay  in  disorder  in  the  bunks  or 
on  the  earth  in  a  corner,  and  knives,  revolvers, 
cards,  and  bottles  occupied  a  rickety  makeshift 
of  a  table. 

"Fetch  me  a  blanket,  in  front  of  the  fire," 
said  the  man  with  Dunny  in  his  arms.  "I  don't 
believe  he's  hit." 

He  laid  the  white-faced  little  traveller  in  the 
light  of  the  fire  and  candle,  and,  leaning  down 
above  him,  pushed  away  the  golden  hair  from 
a  red  little  wound  inflicted  by  a  rock  on  Dunny 's 
head. 

"Struck  himself — must  have  tumbled  off  and 
struck  himself,  I  reckon,"  said  the  deep-voiced 
chief  of  the  gang.  "Fetch  me  a  can  of  water, 
Chenook,  till  I  wash  his  face." 

The  fellow  addressed  as  Chenook  was  a  stolid, 
ugly  -  looking  person,  obviously  half  -  Mexican. 
The  man  who  issued  orders  was  a  powerful, 
brown-bearded,  keen-eyed  product  of  desperate 
deeds,  as  rough  in  his  dress  as  he  was  in  his 
utterance. 

136 


THE  CAMP  OF  THE   DESPERADOES 

As  Chenook  was  bringing  the  water,  the  creak 
ing  door  was  opened  and  in  came  the  man  who 
had  led  away  the  burro. 

"How  about  him,  Larry?"  he  said. 

"Ain't  shot,"  responded  Larry,  somewhat 
roughly  bathing  Dunny's  face.  "Come  around 
pretty  soon,  I  reckon." 

"Bill  ketched  the  burro  in  the  eyes  and  put 
'em  out,"  informed  the  other.  "Him  and 
Smoky  says  there's  nuthin'  else  in  sight. 
They're  comin'  in." 

The  two,  indeed,  appeared  without  delay. 

"There  ain't  nobody  else  on  the  trail,"  said 
Bill,  as  he  stood  his  gun  against  the  wall. 
"How's  he  lookin'?" 

"You  don't  know  but  what  there's  a  posse 
closin'  in,"  answered  the  leader,  in  a  growl. 
"If  a  kid  can  ride  in  onto  us  like  this,  most 
anything  can  foller.  Chenook,  go  out  and 
watch — and  stay  out  till  you're  called  inside 
again!" 

The  half-breed  went  without  a  word,  his  rifle 
slung  on  his  arm. 

"Well,  what  you  tryin'  to  fetch  the  kid 
around  fer,  anyhow?"  demanded  Bill,  who  had 
fired  the  shot.  "Want  him  to  see  the  gang  and 
tell  where  we  are?" 

"Who's  he  goin'  to  tell ?"  responded  the  chief. 


DUNNY 

"Ain't  he  here,  and  likely  to  stay?  And  he 
won't  know  who  we  are  if  you  don't  give  it 
away."  He  went  on  bathing  the  childish  face, 
so  white  and  still. 

"Pretty  little  shaver,"  commented  Smoky, 
who  seemed  almost  as  ruffianly  as  Bill.  "We 
ain't  got  nuthin'  agin  a  kid  as  small  as  him." 

"Go  it— give  us  away  like  two  old  women," 
sneered  Bill.  "Git  soft.  Fetch  him  to.  The 
kid  might  stake  his  folks  if  he  got  the  reward 
fer  blabbin'  on  the  gang." 

"Aw,  dry  up!"  commanded  the  leader,  sav 
agely.  "I  reckon  I  know  the  business,  and 
killin'  off  poor  little  cusses  like  him  ain't  a  part 
of  the  game." 

"Ain't  nobody  killed  him  off,"  retorted  Bill. 
"I  guess  I  kin  handle  my  size  with  the  next  one 
on  the  road." 

"He's  comin'  to,"  said  the  chief.  "Git  some 
of  the  guns  and  truck  put  out  of  sight." 

Smoky  and  the  man  called  Zack  proceeded 
at  once  to  conceal  the  sinister  signs  of  a  dubious 
calling. 

Little  Dunny  opened  his  eyes  very  languidly 
and  gazed  into  the  rough  but  not  unkindly  coun 
tenance  above  him. 

"Where's  Sylvia?"  he  asked,  in  a  weak  little 
voice.     "Where's  Jack — and  Sylvia?" 
138 


THE  CAMP   OF  THE   DESPERADOES 

"If  Jack's  your  donkey,  we've  got  him  out 
with  the  horses,"  answered  Larry,  somewhat 
softening  his  voice.  "How'd  you  come  to  be 
ridin'  'way  up  here  in  the  hills,  little  man? 
Where  do  you  live?" 

Dunny  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment  as  a 
partial  recollection  of  what  had  occurred  came 
piecemeal  into  his  mind. 

"Jack  —  ran  —  away,"  he  faltered.  "He — 
wouldn't — stop." 

"Where  from?"  inquired  the  man.  "Where 
did  he  run  away  from?" 

"From — from  Sylvia,"  answered  Dunny. 

The  man  was  puzzled  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  knew  that  Sylvia  was  the  name  of  a  woman 
and  not  of  a  town. 

"Where  does  Sylvia  live?"  he  asked.  "Where's 
your  home?" 

"We  live  with  Mrs.  Hank,"  said  the  little 
chap,  attempting  to  rise,  but  sinking  back  on  the 
blanket  and  holding  fast  to  the  leader's  hand. 
"Where  is  this?" 

"Alec  Hank's — down  into  Tamarack,"  put  in 
Zack,  in  a  muttered  tone  of  voice.  "I  heard 
they  had  some  boarders." 

"Do  you  live  in  Tamarack?"  inquired  the 
spokesman.  "Is  that  your  home?" 

Dunny  nodded. 

139 


DUNNY 

"Did  you  ride  all  alone?"  asked  the  man, 
insistently. 

Dunny  nodded  again.  He  added:  "Where's 
Sylvia?  I  want  Sylvia." 

"  Don't  you  want  something  to  eat?"  the  man 
inquired.  "  Do  you  feel  pretty  bad  on  the 
head?" 

The  little  fellow  said  that  he  did,  very  sleepily. 
He  was  dazed,  weak,  and  hungry.  He  clung  to 
the  outlaw's  hand  in  childish  trust  and  relapsed 
into  momentary  torpor. 

"Dish  up  the  grub,"  said  the  chief,  and,  taking 
up  the  little  chap,  he  sat  with  him  sheltered  in 
his  arms  before  the  fire. 

"Won't  be  nuthin'  good  come  out  of  this," 
growled  Bill,  as  he  watched  the  others  complete 
arrangements  for  the  evening  meal.  "Some  of 
them  Tamarack  smarties  will  be  startin'  off 
huntin'  fer  the  kid  and  trailin'  his  burro  mighty 
sudden." 

"Let  'em  hunt  and  trail — and  take  the  con 
sequences,"  said  the  leader,  gruffly.  "We  can 
put  up  a  fight  with  men,  but  we  ain't  agoin' 
to  hurt  a  child." 

"Wish  you'd  never  had  a  kid  yourself," 
growled  Bill.  "You  wouldn't  be  such  a  softy." 

"That's  kerrect,"  said  Zach,  and  his  look  was 
hard. 

140 


THE  CAMP  OF  THE   DESPERADOES 

"What  do  you  galoots  think  you  want?"  de 
manded  the  outlaw  chief.  "You  wouldn't  do 
him  no  dirt?" 

"We  could  put  him  onto  his  burro  and  head 
him  fer  Tamarack,  I  reckon,"  answered  Bill. 
"That's  what  we  could  do." 

Zach  repeated,  as  before,  "That's  kerrect." 

"Yes — on  a  blind  and  half-dead  burro,  shot 
full  of  lead  and  ready  to  drop  in  his  tracks!" 
responded  the  chief.  "Well — it  don't  go! — not 
till  a  bigger  man  than  me  is  runnin'  the  game!" 

"Then  what  you  goin'  to  do?"  sneered  Bill, 
in  rising  anger.  "Goin'  to  wait  and  let  the 
whole  kit  and  boodle  of  Tamarack  come  up  and 
herd  us  in?" 

"I  ain't  decided,"  answered  the  leader. 
"And  I  won't  decide  to-night.  He's  wakin' 
up.  We'll  give  him  some  dinner  and  put  him 
to  bed.  Call  Chenook  to  grub." 

Dunny  looked  dully  about  him  as  he  sat  on 
the  outlaw's  knee  and  perceived  the  grim,  for 
bidding  faces  in  the  place. 

A  stew  and  some  bread  as  dry  as  bone  had 
been  placed  on  the  rickety  table.  There  were 
two  tin  plates  and  three  tin  cans  by  way  of 
dishes  from  which  to  eat.  Chenook  came  in, 
and  the  five  men  sat  at  the  board,  presenting  a 
picture  of  wolfish  hunger  and  animal  alertness 
141 


DUNNY 

peculiar  to  see,  for  neither  of  food  nor  rest  nor 
peace  of  mind  had  any  partaken  for  days, 
despite  the  fact  that  treasure  enough  to  make 
them  rich  lay  buried  where  they  had  placed  it 
when  the  filching  of  gold  from  the  stage  had 
been  completed. 

At  all  the  desperate  men  the  little  guest  on 
the  leader's  knee  was  gazing  in  wonder.  Of 
their  calling  he  had  not  the  slightest  intimation. 
Their  roughness  he  found  acceptable,  for  chil 
dren  form  few  opinions  from  mere  outside 
appearances.  He  was  not  alarmed,  for  the 
arm  supporting  his  weight  was  strong  and 
comforting,  and  nothing  in  his  life  had  ever 
happened  to  destroy  his  quaint,  frank  way  of 
confidence  in  all  his  kind.  Moreover,  he  was 
dull,  for  his  head  could  not  be  made  to  emerge 
from  a  species  of  numbness  that  enveloped  it 
oddly. 

"He's  sizin'  us  up,  all  hunky,"  said  the  one 
who  answered  to  "Zack,"  hanging  his  head 
even  lower  above  his  food.  "Bet  he'd  know 
us  all  ag'in." 

"He  won't  grow  up  and  be  sheriff  fer  a  week 
or  two,"  replied  the  leader,  and  then  to  his  little 
guest  he  said:  "You  haven't  told  us  your  name. 
Have  you  got  a  name?" 

"Dunny,"  said  the  weary  bit  of  a  pilgrim, 
142 


THE  CAMP   OF  THE   DESPERADOES 

who  could  answer  questions,  though  his  brain 
refused  to  think. 

"Dunny,"  repeated  the  outlaw.  "Well,  say, 
Dunny,  do  you  like  the  boys?  That's  Cocka 
lorum,  and  that's  Stuff-and-Feathers,  and  that's 
Hot-Potatoes,  and  that  one  there  is  Bill." 

The  men  pointed  out,  one  by  one,  and  ticketed 
with  ready  pseudonymes,  were  grinning — all  save 
the  last,  whose  genuine  appellation  had  been 
revealed.  He  glared  back  at  Dunny  ferociously, 
in  obvious  malevolence. 

Dunny  was  falling  asleep,  despite  his  efforts 
to  be  entertaining. 

"I — don't — like — Bill,"  he  said,  and  he  nes 
tled  trustfully  against  the  big,  supporting  arm 
of  the  master  outlaw  of  the  gang. 


XVI 

A     BREWING    MUTINY 

WO  long  days  had  passed  in  the 
crushed-in  cabin  occupied  by  the  five 
highway  robbers  in  hiding,  and  the 
little  chap  who  had  come  among  them 
so  strangely  was  neither  well  nor 
happy.  His  head  was  sore,  a  touch 
of  fever  had  followed  his  injury  and  his  excite 
ment  over  his  ride,  and  he  was  worried. 

The  men  about  him  were  apparently  growing 
rougher  all  the  time.  Bill  was  openly  hostile 
to  his  presence  and  sullenly  revolting  against 
the  leader's  attitude.  The  others  were  divided 
in  opinion  as  to  what  should  be  done,  for  Zack 
supported  all  or  any  schemes  to  be  rid  of  the 
child,  while  Smoky  faithfully  backed  the  de 
cisions  of  his  chief.  The  half-breed,  Chenook, 
said  little  or  nothing.  To  which  of  the  fac 
tions  he  would  lend  his  weight,  should  conflict 
presently  arise  in  the  company,  could  not  be 
known. 

144 


A  BREWING  MUTINY 

Little  Dunny  made  no  complaint.  He  clung 
to  his  strong  friend  Larry  in  affection  quite  un 
questioning,  asking  only  for  Sylvia  and  wishing 
only  that  the  outlaw  chief  would  take  him  home 
to  Tamarack  whensoever  he  could  get  the  time. 
The  food  was  poor  and  meagre ;  the  nights  were 
cold.  He  was  weak  and  sick  and  spiritless. 

"Don't  you  like  it  here?"  inquired  the  leader, 
this  morning  of  the  third  day.  "Don't  you  like 
it  a  little?" 

And  Dunny  answered,  "Pretty  well." 

"Poor  little  customer!"  the  leader  muttered 
to  himself.  "He's  got  a  heap  of  sand." 

Zach  and  Smoky  sat  beside  the  table  while 
the  breakfast  simmered  on  the  fire.  Chenook 
was  out  by  the  trail,  on  guard.  Bill  was  sitting 
on  a  log  of  wood,  his  rifle  in  his  hands.  He 
fondled  it  idly. 

"How  long  you  goin'  to  keep  this  racket  up?" 
he  asked,  with  no  attempt  at  concealment  of 
his  hate  for  little  Dunny.  "S'pose  you'll  be 
wantin'  us  to  see  him  home  pretty  soon." 

"That's  where  he  belongs,"  replied  the  leader, 
in  his  big,  gruff  voice.  "I  might  do  worse  than 
take  him  back." 

Bill  delivered  a  string  of  oaths  that  he  found 
no  longer  containable. 

"You're  headin'  the  whole  fool  gang  to  the 
MS 


DUNNY 

pen  and  fifteen  years  of  labor,  you  are!"  he  con 
cluded,  in  his  wrath.  "For  just  about  two  cents, 
I'd  shoot—" 

"Stow  it,  Bill!"  interrupted  the  chief,  in  a 
warning  command.  "Don't  make  no  cracks  at 
me  or  the  kid  'bout  what  you'll  do.  Your  doc 
tor  wouldn't  advise  you  no  such  way." 

"Well — what'll  you  do?"  demanded  Bill,  in 
defiance. 

The  leader  placed  Dunny  in  a  bunk,  for  the 
little  chap  was  again  asleep.  Walking  deliber 
ately  over  to  the  angered  Bill,  the  master  outlaw 
regarded  him  calmly,  while  a  cold,  hard  glitter 
came  in  his  eyes. 

"Don't  ask  me  to  begin  inventin'  ways  I'd 
break  every  bone  in  your  carcass,  Bill,"  he  said. 
"I  might  git  to  feelin'  'thusiastic  and  sweatin' 
to  tackle  the  job." 

"You've  worked  your  bulldozin'  racket  to  the 
bed-rock,  Bart,  and  don't  you  fergit  it,"  Bill 
replied,  relapsing  into  sullen  fury.  "We  ain't 
a-goin'  to  stand  this  right  along." 

"We?"  repeated  Bart.  "We?  —  and  who  is 
we?  You  two — you,  Zack,  and  Smoky?" 

"Not  me,"  said  Smoky,  with  alacrity. 

"We've  got  some  rights,"  protested  Zack,  in 
weak  support  of  Bill. 

"Well,  any  time  you  want  to  break  with 
146 


A  BREWING  MUTINY 

me,  you  pack  and  git,"  responded  the  leader, 
addressing  the  malcontents  comprehensively. 
"You  know  where  you'll  come  to  anchor.  The 
mountains  is  fuller  of  deputy  sheriffs  than  a 
clam's  full  of  meat." 

"Then  what  you  keepin'  the  kid  fer,  drawin' 
every  cuss  in  Tamarack  'round  the  shack?" 
inquired  Bill. 

"How  many  have  we  drawed  by  this?"  re 
plied  Bart.  "There  ain't  bin  a  man  within  a 
mile  or  more  of  the  place." 

"You  don't  know  when  they'll  git  here, 
though." 

"When  they  do  they  ain't  a-comin*  with 
weapons,  not  if  they're  huntin'  fer  the  kid," 
argued  the  chief,  with  logic  unerring.  "They 
don't  know  what's  waitin'  here  to  stand  off 
the  law  and  a  posse." 

Zack  said,  "That's  kerrect."  He  wished  to 
reinstate  himself  in  the  leader's  favor. 

Bill  glared  in  Zack's  direction,  fully  aware  he 
was  losing  support. 

"How  long  you  goin'  to  keep  this  up  is  what 
I  want  to  know?"  he  repeated.  "If  the  kid 
could  ride  up  here  alone,  he  kin  go  back  home 
same  way.  Start  him  off  on  his  burro,  headed 
fer  Tamarack,  and  let  his  folks  maybe  find  him 
on  the  trail." 


DUNNY 

"He'd  tell  'em  all  about  us  here,"  objected 
Smoky. 

"It  can't  be  done  to-day,"  decided  the  chief. 
"He's  sick.  Give  him  a  show  to  git  a  little 
better." 

Bill  began  to  swear  again.  His  anger  rose  in 
proportion  as  he  felt  the  leader  knew  of  the 
danger  attending  the  presence  of  the  helpless 
child  in  the  cabin. 

"When  the  time  comes,  Larry  Bart,"  he  said, 
"and  we're  ketched  like  a  lot  of  crawlin'  rats — 
and  all  on  account  of  you  bein'  soft  as  a  rotten 
pear  over  this  yere  brat — why,  you  look  out  fer 
trouble  here  in  camp." 

Bart  was  keenly  aware  of  the  risk  he  was 
hourly  incurring  with  his  sick  little  guest  beneath 
the  roof,  but  he  meant  to  stand  his  ground.  He 
had  almost  been  in  a  mood  to  beg  for  time — 
to  appeal  to  the  something  decent  remaining  in 
his  lawless  following.  Now,  however,  he  became 
the  hard,  unflinching  master  once  again. 

"Bill,  don't  you  give  yourself  away  fer  a 
treacherous  sneak,"  he  said.  "I'd  just  as  soon 
kill  you  as  a  rattler.  You  know  that.  And 
again,  you  wouldn't  dare  to  shoot  at  me  unless 
I  was  dead  as  a  salted  cod.  What's  the  matter 
with  breakfast,  anyhow?  No  wonder  we're  all 
on  the  fight." 

148 


A  BREWING  MUTINY 

The  breakfast  was  presently  served.  It  con 
sisted  of  half-cooked  beans  and  some  stuff  that 
passed  for  coffee. 

Bart  awakened  the  pale  little  fellow  in  the 
berth  and  brought  him  to  the  table.  He  sat 
on  the  great,  rough  knee,  his  little  cheek  laid 
wearily  on  the  outlaw's  coat,  his  dulled  eyes 
listlessly  turning  from  one  of  the  men  to  an 
other. 

"Dunny,  can't  you  eat  a  little  breakfast?" 
queried  Bart,  in  attempted  tenderness  —  "not 
a  little  bite?" 

Dunny  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"How  you  feelin'  to-day?"  inquired  the  man. 

"Not — very — well,"  faltered  the  little  guest, 
and  his  lip  was  quivering  despite  himself. 

Bart  arose  without  attempting  to  eat.  He 
walked  up  and  down  with  the  childish  form  in 
his  arms,  trying  to  hum  at  a  song,  and  gently 
patting  the  little  fellow's  back  with  his  com 
forting  hand. 

"Game  little  shaver,"  commented  Smoky — 
"sort  of  a  nice  little  tike." 

Bill  and  Zack  made  no  observations,  though 
Zack,  to  do  him  justice,  felt  a  little  sympathetic 
himself. 

And  so  that  Saturday,  beautiful  beyond  ex 
pression  as  to  sunshine,  warmth,  and  summer 
149 


DUNNY 

glory,  passed  as  the  days  before  had  passed, 
and  the  outlaws  bided  time  in  their  mountain 
concealment. 

In  the  afternoon  the  big,  brown  -  bearded 
leader  carried  Dunny  out  to  see  his  blinded 
burro  and  the  horses,  hopeful  that  the  sight  of 
the  animals  would  do  the  little  fellow  good. 
It  only  served,  however,  to  reveal  to  the  man 
the  weak  and  fading  grasp  on  existence  that 
his  childish  guest  retained. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want,  my  little  boy?" 
he  said.  "Ain't  there  anything  you  want?" 

Dunny  nodded  feebly.  "I  want  —  Sylvia — 
awful  bad,"  he  said,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  and 
his  two  little  fists  to  keep  from  crying. 

Bart  took  him  back  to  the  cabin,  where  he 
laid  him  in  the  blankets  of  a  bed. 

"The  little  feller's  got  to  be  took  to  his  folks," 
he  said,  "or  I  reckon  he  ain't  agoin'  to  live." 

Then  at  dusk  Chenook  came  in  to  make  a 
report.  He  had  seen  an  Indian  on  the  hill-top, 
half  a  mile  away,  slowly  working  through  the 
rocks,  around  the  flat  where  the  one-time  lumber- 
camp  was  situated. 

"Takes  an  Injun  to  ketch  an  Injun,"  dryly 
vouchsafed  the  outlaw  chief,  as  he  listened  to 
the  meagre  particulars.  "Keep  a-watchin'.  If 
he  gits  to  smellin'  'round  too  close,  shoot  him 


A   BREWING  MUTINY 

first,  Chenook,  and  ask  him  his  business  after 
wards." 

"I  knowed  we'd  soon  be  comin'  to  it,"  Bill 
remarked,  with  satisfaction  that  was  grim  and 
ominous.  "I  wonder  how  much  longer  you'll 
be  stayin'  now  and  foolin'  around  with  the 
kid."  •' 

"Well,  we  won't  run  straight  to  the  posse, 
scared  so  bad  we  can't  pipe  a  crew  to  work  our 
brains,"  said  Bart.  "We'll  navigate  accordin' 
to  reason." 

With  an  Indian  sleuth  already  thus  upon 
them,  the  outlaw  knew  their  stay  in  the  camp 
was  at  an  end.  That  night,  at  the  latest,  must 
see  them  far  away  and  fleeing  from  the  long, 
uncompromising  arm  of  the  law  for  very  life 
itself. 

Yet  he  drew  out  his  pocket-knife  and  whittled 
at  a  stick  as  he  sat  in  the  door  of  the  shack  to 
think. 


XVII 
TWO   MEN'S   DECISIONS 

N  Tamarack  despair  had  come  like  a 
vulture,  circling,  soaring,  waiting  in 
the  air  till  hope  should  cease  to  live. 
Utterly  distracted,  Sylvia  knew  not 
what  to  do  or  which  way  to  turn. 
That  first  black  night  of  Dunny's 
disappearance  had  gone  like  a  terrible  dream. 
With  Jerry  away,  with  not  a  single  soul  to  whom 
she  could  turn  for  that  deep  and  intimate  friend 
ship  that  would  furnish  the  aid  she  suddenly 
required,  she  had  undergone  anguish  after  an 
guish  for  which  there  could  be  no  relief. 

She  had  quite  expected  Dunny  to  return  at 
any  hour  of  the  afternoon,  till  the  day  had  gone, 
the  sun  had  set,  and  the  darkness  of  night  had 
begun  to  fall.  Then  her  worry  had  quickly 
ripened  into  fear. 

John  Hank  had  spread  the  alarm  throughout 
the  town  at  last  and  roused  his  neighbors,  yet 
a  man  to  take  the  parties  all  in  hand  and  or- 
152 


TWO  MEN'S   DECISIONS 

ganize  a  search,  as  Jerry  Kirk  would  certainly 
have  done,  was  not  to  be  found  among  them  all. 

Such  as  they  were,  however,  they  had  scoured 
the  region  thoroughly  in  every  direction  within 
a  mile  of  town.  Searching  with  lanterns,  calling 
sharply  from  one  to  another,  they  had  swept 
in  a  long,  eager  line  across  the  flat  whereon 
the  lumber-yard  and  town  were  placed,  and  then 
around  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain,  up  through 
the  bed  of  the  great  ravine,  and  down  towards 
the  valley  and  the  farms,  but  all  to  no  avail. 

How  the  night  had  gone,  poor  Sylvia  did  not 
know.  She  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  those 
hours  out  on  the  hills  herself.  Then  had  fol 
lowed  a  day  of  summer  beauty,  suddenly  made 
terrible  in  all  the  dread  it  contained.  The 
search  had  continued.  Not  more  than  two 
miles  upward  in  the  mountains  had  the  parties 
penetrated.  No  one  had  thought  of  trailing  the 
burro  till  his  tracks  were  quite  obliterated  and 
such  a  hope  had  become  futile. 

Then  dark  and  fearful  theories  had  come  from 
caves  of  doubt  and  despair.  The  Chinese 
woodsmen  could  have  done  some  deed  of  vio 
lence  in  snatching  back  the  mended  donkey;  the 
flume  could  have  caught  a  form  so  small  and 
carried  it  down  with  a  drive  of  wood,  to  be 
buried  in  the  dark  -  red  pyramid  of  four  -  foot 


DUNNY 

billets,  where  it  would  be  seen  no  more  for 
months. 

Sylvia,  wringing  her  hands  and  trying  to 
hope,  trying  to  guide  the  men  to  newer  fields, 
had  become  so  pale  they  hardly  knew  her  face. 
By  the  third  day  she  was  quite  at  the  end  of 
her  wits.  She  was  frantic  to  run  away  herself 
— anywhere — in  search  of  the  little  brother  to 
whom  she  clung  with  all  the  love  of  a  sister  and 
mother  combined. 

She  had  written  to  Jerry  Kirk  to  come  and 
help  her  in  her  need,  but  the  letter  waited  at 
Millsite,  while  Jerry  was  miles  beyond,  delayed 
by  intricate  affairs  of  business  and  unaware  of 
what  had  occurred. 

Then  two  things  happened:  Sylvia  thought  of 
Allan  Kennedy,  and  Tid  Flack  came  to  her  aid 
unexpectedly. 

"I've  sent  an  Injun  friend  of  mine  to  look  for 
Weaver,  miss,"  he  said.  "I  got  him  as  soon  as 
I  could." 

Kennedy  arrived  in  Tamarack  on  Saturday 
afternoon.  He  lost  no  time  in  securing  a  horse 
and  riding  to  the  mountains.  He  searched,  as 
all  the  others  had  searched  before,  blindly,  but 
with  worry  and  love  in  his  heart  to  spur  him 
on.  He  rode  his  horse  half  to  death  that  first 
afternoon,  and  found  himself  baffled  at  the  fall 
154 


TWO  MEN'S  DECISIONS 

of  darkness.  He  then  spent  the  hours  till  mid 
night  scouring  the  Chinese  quarters,  with  Flack, 
to  see  if  Dunny's  burro  might  be  there. 

At  daylight,  Sunday,  he  was  after  Tid  again, 
for  the  cobbler  alone  supplied  him  with  a  hope. 
The  sun  was  barely  up  when  the  Indian  trailer 
came  to  town,  and,  proceeding  at  once  to  Flack's, 
reported  that  Dunny's  burro,  and  doubtless  also 
the  little  man  himself,  could  be  found  in  the 
camp  across  the  summit  where  once  the  lumber 
gangs  had  been  at  work. 

"Five  mens  up  there,"  he  added,  quietly. 
"Maybe  Big  Bart — you  savvy?" 

"Bart,  the  stage-robber!  Bart  and  his  gang, 
up  there?"  demanded  Kennedy.  "Oh,  little 
Dunny  isn't  with  them,  I  hope." 

"No  see  um  boy,"  reported  the  Indian. 
"Heap  see  um  donkey." 

"He's  there!  Of  course  he's  there!"  said  Al 
lan,  with  sudden  conviction.  "And  Bart!" 

"I  hope  he's  alive,"  said  Flack,  in  a  depth  of 
feeling  that  he  could  not  conceal.  "I  hope 
Weaver's  alive." 

"I'm  going,"  decided  Kennedy.  "Tid,  don't 
tell  about  this  to  any  one  in  town.  If  you  do 
they  might  attempt  to  send  a  posse  after  Bart, 
to  get  the  reward.  Then  we'll  never  see  Dunny 
alive.  If  I  go  alone  the  robbers  will  never  sus- 


DUNNY 

pect  I've  come  to  give  them  trouble.  Don't  say 
a  word  to  Miss  Weaver,  either,  please.  I'd  hate 
to  raise  a  hope  that  may  go  all  to  pieces.  Un 
derstand?" 

"Ain't  I  a  cobbler?"  answered  Tid.  "Jim 
and  I  ain't  the  kind  to  spoil  it  now." 

Jim  was  the  Indian.  Kennedy  gave  him  a 
five-dollar  gold  piece. 

"More  by-and-by,"  he  said.  "Now  tell  me 
how  to  find  the  place." 

The  Indian  gave  brief  but  lucid  directions. 
Flack  was  listening  intently. 

"Of  course  you  know  you'll  git  shot,"  he 
said.  "Don't  you  want  a  gun?" 

"No — not  a  thing,"  said  Allan.  "I've  got  no 
fight  with  highway  robbers  to-day.  I  only  want 
little  Dunny." 

"You'll  git  shot,  however,"  cautioned  Tid 
again.  "They  won't  wait  to  ask  you  what  you 
want." 

"I'm  going  —  that's  all!"  said  Kennedy,  and 
he  hastened  away  to  get  his  horse,  on  which  he 
was  presently  riding  up  the  great  ravine. 

In  the  mountains  various  matters  had  come 
to  a  head  in  the  hidden  retreat  of  the  despera 
does.  With  the  falling  of  night  activities  had 
quickly  developed,  and  with  them  complica 
tions.  Nervously  apprehensive  that  the  Indian 
1*56 


TWO  MEN'S  DECISIONS 

discovered  by  Chenook  had  come  to  the  place  as  a 
spy,  or  a  scout  for  the  sheriff,  four  of  the  robbers 
had  thrown  indecision  aside  immediately  in  a 
species  of  panic  to  be  gone. 

Larry  Bart,  finding  Bill  assuming  a  leadership 
over  the  men,  whose  one  mad  thought  was  flight, 
nevertheless  continued  his  calm  and  masterful 
indifference  to  gathering  dangers. 

"We'll  make  no  mistake  by  puttin'  in  two 
good  hours  of  thinkin'  fer  every  hour  of  retreat- 
in',"  he  said.  "We've  got  to  think  how  we're 
going  to  feed  as  well  as  give  the  law  the  slip. 
Starvation  ketches  more  men  like  us  than  all 
the  sheriffs." 

"Come  out  with  your  meanin'  good  and 
plain,"  responded  Bill,  in  his  angry  impatience. 
"You're  countin'  on  foolin'  around  here  with 
the  kid.  If  it  hadn't  bin  fer  him  we  wouldn't 
'a'  bin  in  no  such  fix!" 

"We'd  have  been  stayin'  here,  kid  or  no  kid," 
answered  Bart,  unwilling  at  such  an  hour  to 
confess  the  softness  increasing  upon  him.  "You 
all  know  that." 

"But  we  wouldn't  'a'  had  the  kid-hunters,  on 
top  of  posses,  snoopin'  around  and  spottin'  our 
smoke,"  answered  Bill.  "Don't  you  fergit  it, 
Bart,  we  ain't  agoin'  to  hang  out  here  no  longer, 
not  fer  you  and  a  dozen  kids  to  boot.  You  kin 


DUNNY 

make  up  your  mind  right  now — it's  us  or  the  brat 
you're  goin'  to  stick  to  after  this." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  the 
child?"  inquired  Bart.  "You  know  he's  sick." 

"Don't  make  no  diff  to  us  what  you  do,"  said 
Bill.  "You  kin  leave  him  here  fer  his  friends  to 
find,  I  reckon." 

"Yes,  they  might  come  along  and  find  him — 
after  he  was  dead,"  agreed  the  leader,  grimly. 
"I've  took  a  likin'  to  the  boy,  without  askin' 
nobody's  permission.  He's  sick,  and  needin'  a 
mother.  He's  sicker  than  I  thought.  I  ain't 
agoin'  to  go  away  and  leave  him  here  to 
die." 

"Then  you  can  go  to  hell!"  retorted  Bill. 
"We're  done  with  you,  right  now,  and  we're 
goin'  out  to  saddle  up  and  git." 

"Where  to?"  inquired  Bill,  without  the  slight 
est  emotion. 

Bill  was  unable  to  answer  for  a  moment. 

"Anywhere  away  from  here,"  he  presently  re 
plied. 

"And  maybe  run  into  a  posse,  first  crack," 
supplemented  the  chief.  "It  wasn't  you,  Bill, 
that  kept  us  from  bein'  nabbed  the  night  of  the 
hold-up;  don't  let  that  git  dry  in  your  memory." 

"That's  kerrect,"  said  Zack. 

Smoky  added:  "Larry,  you  kin  git  us  out  of 
158 


TWO  MEN'S   DECISIONS 

this.     Don't  fool  around  with  no  durn  kid,  but 
git  us  out!" 

Chenook  said  nothing. 

"If  the  kid  was  out  of  the  way,  we'd  git  along 
all  right  and  save  our  necks,"  said  Bill.  He  sud 
denly  conceived  a  sinister  purpose. 

Quietly  drawing  his  hunting-knife,  he  moved 
towards  Dunny's  berth,  as  if  in  a  careless  mood 
of  no  particular  purport. 

Instantly  Bart  leaped  upon  him  and  struck 
him  a  blow  that  sent  him  reeling. 

"Don't  try  it,  Bill!"  he  growled,  in  a  voice 
more  terrible  for  the  very  suppression  of  rage 
behind  it.  "Don't  lay  a  finger  on  that  little 
kid,  or  I'll  kill  you  deader  than  oakum!" 

In  a  towering  rage  Bill  staggered  to  his  bal 
ance  and  drew  a  huge  revolver.  He  cocked  the 
weapon  hurriedly  and  raised  it  to  the  level  of 
the  leader's  head. 

Bart  walked  up  to  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  in 
absolute  fearlessness.  A  hard,  indomitable  light 
was  in  his  eyes. 

"Put  it  down!"  he  commanded. 

Bill  could  see  nothing  but  that  glittering  gaze, 
and  down  the  weapon  came. 

"Put  it  up!"  ordered  Bart,  and  it  went  to  its 
holster  shakingly. 

Bill  was  breathing  as  if  he  had  run  a  mile. 
159 


DUNNY 

"You're  an  idiot,  Bill,"  said  the  leader,  coldly. 
"You  ain't  got  the  sense  of  a  fish." 

Zack  muttered,  "That's  kerrect." 

Bill  commenced  to  swear. 

"That's  enough  of  that.  Your  cussin'  ain't 
no  substitute  fer  plannin',"  instructed  the  chief. 
"I'm  running  this  show,  and  I'm  running  it 
my  way.  You  lot  of  fools  would  land  in  the 
sheriff's  paws  before  the  morning.  Now  listen 
to  me.  You  go  and  saddle  up  and  take  my 
horse  in  lead  and  put  for  Lady's  Cove,  by 
way  of  Cedar  Valley.  Go  to  Moody's  ranch  fer 
grub — some  beans  and  bacon.  Then  ride  your 
horses  up  the  creek,  and  don't  leave  the  water 
till  you  reach  the  cove ;  and  there  you  camp,  in 
the  little  lost  meadow,  and  wait  fer  me  to  come." 

"Wait  fer  you,  Larry?"  echoed  Smoky. 
"Ain't  you  goin'  along?  Don't  you  want  your 
hoss?" 

"He's  goin'  to  stay  with  the  kid,"  sneered 
Bill,  in  his  impotent  wrath.  "He  thinks  he's 
come  to  be  a  mother." 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  him  home,"  corrected  the 
chief,  a  flush  of  color  burning  for  a  moment  in 
his  swarthy  cheek.  "I'm  lookin'  out  fer  all 
you  boys;  I'm  goin'  to  see  you  through  the 
game,  but  I  said  I've  took  a  fancy  to  the  boy, 
and  I'm  goin'  to  land  him  back  among  his  folks." 
1 60 


XVIII 
HOW  TWO   MEN   MET 

OUR  of  the  desperate  outlaws  were 
gone,  with  all  the  horses.  Only  the 
blind  little  burro  was  left  of  all  the 
animals.  Bart  and  Dunny  were  alone 
in  the  cabin. 

By  the  light  of  a  single  candle  the 
man  sat  gazing  at  the  berth  where  his  ailing 
little  guest  was  wrapped  in  a  blanket.  He  knew 
that  his  task  of  taking  Dunny  down  to  Tama 
rack  could  be  much  more  safely  accomplished 
in  the  dark,  yet  he  waited  here,  determined  that 
the  child  should  have  the  benefit  of  the  night  of 
sleep  and  rest. 

Taking  the  candle  in  hand  at  midnight,  the 
man  went  quietly  across  the  floor  to  the  bunk, 
and  gazed  long  and  silently  at  the  pale  little  face 
that  lay  on  the  grain-sack  pillow.  A  mighty 
yearning  came  into  the  outlaw's  breast  as  he 
gently  laid  his  hand  on  the  tangled  hair.  His 
eyes  took  on  a  look  of  concern. 
161 


DUNNY 

"God  Almighty,  I  can't  pray,"  he  presently 
muttered,  "but  don't  hold  what  I've  done 
agin  this  little  boy.  Give  him  a  show  till  I  can 
git  him  home." 

Watching,  listening,  momentarily  expecting 
the  arrival  of  the  law  in  the  form  of  a  posse  of 
men,  he  sat  beside  the  table  or  hovered  near 
the  bunk  till  day  was  come  and  the  sun  was 
resuming  the  alchemies  that  wrought  a  summer. 
Then  he  saddled  the  burro  and  wakened  his 
little  guest. 

Dunny  opened  his  eyes,  but  he  appeared  not 
to  see.  He  could  not  touch  the  bean-and-coffee 
breakfast,  thoughtfully  prepared,  and  therefore 
Bart  was  obliged  to  eat  alone. 

Wrapped  in  the  blanket,  to  shield  him  from 
the  chill  of  the  morning  air,  the  silent  little 
pilgrim  was  taken  up  in  the  big,  strong  arms. 

"We're  goin'  home,"  said  the  man. 

But  as  Dunny  was  far  too  ill  to  ride,  the  burro 
was  led.  In  its  blindness  it  followed  patiently, 
banishing  forever  that  mad,  ecstatic  dream  of 
returning  to  the  pastures  it  had  known  a  year 
before.  So  they  issued  forth  in  the  trail,  where 
hiding  was  no  longer  possible,  and  headed  for 
the  haunts  of  men.  They  crossed  the  region  of 
rocks  and  trees,  came  to  the  chasm  of  cliffs,  and 
wound  on  downward  on  the  farther  side,  the 
162 


HOW   TWO   MEN   MET 

man  with  two  revolvers  strapped  upon  him,  a 
vigorous,  muscular,  sinister  figure,  with  the 
small,  light  burden  on  his  arm  and  the  blinded 
donkey  trailing  in  his  wake. 

By  this  time  Allan  Kennedy  was  well  up  into 
the  great  ravine,  where  the  day  engoldened  the 
trees  and  slopes  and  structures  of  rock,  heaped 
crudely  up  as  if  in  the  play  of  Titans  prodigious 
in  their  strength.  The  horse  that  Allan  was 
riding,  having  seen  too  much  of  service  recently, 
was  beginning  to  limp.  In  half  an  hour  he  was 
hobbling  painfully. 

Despite  his  impatience,  Allan  knew  the  ani 
mal  could  not  be  further  employed.  He  therefore 
dismounted  and,  hastily  securing  the  horse  to  a 
tree,  continued  on  his  way  afoot,  striding  for 
ward  with  all  the  haste  that  the  steepness  of 
the  trail  would  permit. 

Ahead  of  him  at  last  the  canon  seemed  to  end. 
It  was  merely  where  an  angular  turn  of  the 
mighty  wrinkle  in  the  mountain  -  mass  was 
formed,  as  Allan  presently  observed.  The  trail 
rounded  a  corner  here,  about  a  growth  of  trees. 
Kennedy  came  about  it  rapidly.  Then  he  sud 
denly  halted. 

He  was  face  to  face  with  Bart,  whose  hand 
had  dropped  instantly  to  the  butt  of  a  long 
revolver. 

163 


DUNNY 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  stood  there  mo 
tionless  and  dumb,  staring  each  other  in  the  eye. 
Then  Allan  saw  the  donkey  and  the  burden  the 
outlaw  held  upon  his  arm. 

"Bart!"  he  cried.     "Little  Dunny!" 

He  started  forward  eagerly.  The  outlaw's 
pistol  was  out,  cocked  and  levelled  like  a  flash, 
but  Allan  seemed  not  to  observe  it  as  he  has 
tened  forward,  his  arms  held  out  before  him. 

He  fairly  collided  with  the  pistol's  muzzle  be 
fore  he  reeled  back,  aware  of  his  peril.  The 
sweat  broke  out  on  his  brow.  His  face  was 
fearfully  white. 

"Don't  shoot!"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "Dunny! — 
little  Dunny! — he's  all  I  want!" 

Beads  of  moisture  had  likewise  oozed  abrupt 
ly  from  the  outlaw's  face.  How  it  could  be  that 
he  had  actually  permitted  a  man  to  run  against 
his  weapon  with  impunity  he  could  not  possibly 
imagine. 

"Who  are  you ?  Where  did  you  come  from ?" 
he  demanded,  gruffly,  still  with  the  pistol  pointed 
blankly  at  Kennedy's  head. 

Allan  answered  his  questions  honestly  and 
promptly. 

"I  didn't  come  to  look  for  you,"  he  added, 
in  frankness  that  sprang  unbidden  from  his  lips. 
"I  came  to  find  the  little  boy.  Isn't  he  awake ? 
164 


HOW  TWO  MEN  MET 

What's  the  matter?     Tell  me,  Bart  —  he  isn't 
sick — or  something  worse?" 

"I  guess  you're  on  the  square,"  replied  the 
outlaw,  dropping  his  weapon  to  its  place. 
"He's  sick;  he's  awful  sick.  He's  got  to  be 
took  to  his  folks."  He  held  forth  the  limp  little 
form  reluctantly,  as  if  it  cost  him  pain  to  let 
him  go. 

Allan  took  the  precious  burden  eagerly.  He 
turned  about  to  hasten  to  Tamarack,  too  wor 
ried  to  lose  another  minute. 

"Say,  hold  on  a  second,"  said  the  outlaw, 
catching  him  roughly  by  the  shoulder.  "How'd 
you  hear  he  was  up  in  the  hills?" 

Allan  told  him  candidly  of  the  Indian's  work 
and  report. 

"All  the  town  dead  on?"  inquired  Bart. 

"No,  not  a  soul  was  told  but  old  Tid  Flack 
and  me , ' '  said  Allan.  ' '  All  I  wanted  was  Dunny . ' ' 

"Guess  I  can  turn  around  and  go,  then,"  said 
the  outlaw,  resignedly.  A  light  of  yearning 
burned  in  his  eyes,  and  Allan  understood,  not 
only  that  the  man  had  dared  the  utmost  dan 
gers  to  his  life  in  coming  thus  towards  Tama 
rack,  but  also  that  Dunny  had  taken  a  wonder 
ful  hold  on  the  man's  affections. 

"Bart,   shake,"  he  said,  thrusting  forth  his 
hand.     "You  must  have  liked  him  yourself," 
'65 


DUNNY 

"I — liked  him  all  the  way  through,"  admitted 
Bart  as  he  took  the  proffered  hand.  "He's  a 
nice  little  kid.  He's  got  sand.  You'd  better 
lead  his  burro.  He's  blind — got  a  dose  of  shot 
• — but  I  reckon  he's  Dunny's  pet." 

Allan  accepted  the  bridle-rein  mechanically. 

"I  want  to  hurry  all  I  can,"  he  said. 

"I  savvy,"  said  Bart.  "I  hope  he'll  soon  git 
well — I  hope  he  will!  If  he  ever  asks  fer  Larry 
— but  of  course  he  won't — and  maybe  better 
not.  So  long." 

"So  long,"  said  Allan,  and  again  he  turned 
to  go. 

"Say,"  said  the  outlaw,  huskily.  "Say — I'd 
kind  of  like  to — to  tell  the  boy  good-bye." 

Gently  he  bent  above  the  white  little  face  and 
kissed  the  pallid  cheek. 

"'Bye,  my  little  boy,"  he  said.  "Good-bye. 
Best  I  kin  wish  you  is  you'll  never  see  Larry 
again." 

The  sick  little  man  on  Allan's  arm  could  make 
no  response.  The  outlaw  smiled  at  Kennedy 
peculiarly,  and  started  up  the  side  of  the  moun 
tain  in  his  active,  vigorous  way. 

After  a  moment  of  watching  him,  Allan  faced 
again  towards  Tamarack  and  led  the  burro  on 
ward,  down  the  trail. 

Where  the  great  ravine  made  the  turn  that 
166 


HOW  TWO  MEN   MET 

would  hide  those  particular  slopes  entirely  from 
view,  Kennedy  halted  and  looked  for  Bart. 

Far  up  on  the  slope,  among  the  rocks,  the 
outlaw,  too,  had  paused.  He  waved  a  rough 
farewell,  and  once  more  faced  the  Titan  steeps 
that  lay  across  his  path. 


XIX 
LOVE   WILL    FIND   THE   WAY 


N  Monday  morning  news  was  brought 
to  Tamarack  that  Larry  Bart  had 
been  killed  in  a  battle  with  a  posse 
while  attempting  escape  towards  the 
mountain  retreat  where  he  had  baf 
fled  the  law  from  time  to  time  before. 
The  man  had  been  found  alone,  on  Sunday 
afternoon,  according  to  the  story,  and,  having 
fought  like  a  tiger  driven  to  bay,  had  died  with 
a  smile  upon  his  lips.  His  pilgrimage  towards 
Tamarack  with  Dunny  had  cost  him  all  he  could 
give. 

Jerry   Kirk  returned   to   town   on   Tuesday, 

glad  to  find  little  Dunny  slowly  improving  under 

the  fostering  care  of  Sylvia  and  Allan  Kennedy. 

Every  one  had  rendered  aid,  the  faithful  Ti- 

monides  Flack  more  than  any  other  soul,  but 

Dunny  clung  to  Allan  with  all  the  strength  and 

purpose  in  his  weary  little  body.     He  seemed  to 

derive  an  infinite  comfort  from  Allan's  ministra- 

168 


LOVE  WILL  FIND  THE  WAY 

tions.  With  a  natural  understanding  and  sym 
pathy  between  them,  Allan  and  Sylvia  worked 
beside  the  bed  together,  hourly  becoming  more 
and  more  indispensable  to  each  other's  happi 
ness. 

It  was  this  that  Jerry  discovered  first.  He 
had  come  there  worried ;  he  remained  to  be  har 
assed.  Only  the  one  little  letter,  informing 
him  of  Dunny's  disappearance,  had  greeted  his 
return  to  Millsite,  on  the  summit,  for  after  the 
little  fellow's  restoration  to  her  arms  Sylvia  had 
not  had  the  time  to  write  again.  The  great 
relief  that  Jerry  felt,  to  find  little  Dunny  at 
home  again,  was  partially  nullified  by  the  bitter 
ness  of  jealousy  swiftly  engendered  in  his  bosom 
thus  to  see  Allan  Kennedy  occupying  the  field 
that  by  rights  belonged  to  himself. 

The  galling  part  of  it  was  that  he  knew  it  was 
to  Allan  that  they  owed  their  gratitude.  Allan 
had  been  here  in  Sylvia's  hour  of  need;  Allan 
it  was  who  had  brought  the  little  patient  home 
in  his  arms.  Despite  himself,  Jerry  could  not 
withhold  his  admiration,  not  only  for  Kennedy's 
manliness  and  courage,  but  also  for  his  modesty 
and  the  unaffected  frankness  of  his  confession 
that  Bart  was  the  one  deserving  praise.  The 
sheer  force  of  bravery  Kennedy  had  shown  ap 
pealed  to  Jerry's  nature.  He  gave  his  rival 

"  169 


DUNNY 

credit,  in  his  honest  way,  yet  he  could  not  drive 
the  rancor  from  his  heart. 

That  love  had  blossomed  here  at  Dunny's 
side  between  Sylvia  and  Allan  was  inevitable. 
It  was  patent  to  all  who  saw  the  two  together. 
The  touch  of  their  hands,  in  the  worry  they 
shared,  the  look  in  their  eyes,  where  common 
affection  begot  a  trust  and  understanding — 
these  and  a  score  of  little  signs  that  appeared 
almost  parental  between  them  could  not  have 
been  concealed.  Their  love  not  only  had  flower 
ed,  it  had  also  come  to  sublimation.  The  touch 
of  divinity  had  been  thus  early  vouchsafed  it, 
through  the  rack  of  anguish,  before  the  tide  had 
been  turned  in  Dunny's  favor. 

Mrs.  Hank  had  early  become  aware  of  the 
feeling  existing  between  Allan  Kennedy  and  Syl 
via,  but  even  she  could  not  discern  the  things 
made  plain  to  Jerry  Kirk.  He  could  feel  in  the 
air  the  facts  at  which  another  might  possibly 
conjecture. 

But  with  Dunny  still  helpless,  weak,  white, 
and  wellnigh  smileless,  it  was  an  ill  time  for 
sullen  brooding.  Moreover,  Jerry's  nature  was 
anything  but  sullen.  His  present  concern  was 
the  little  patient's  recovery.  With  all  his  big 
and  generous  heart  he  joined  with  Allan  and 
Sylvia  to  restore  the  health  and  strength  to 
170 


LOVE  WILL  FIND  THE   WAY 

the  mite  of  a  man  whose  hold  upon  his  heart 
had  become  even  stouter  than  before. 

For  two  more  days  the  three  continued  their 
labors  here  together.  By  then  little  Dunny  was 
well  out  of  danger  and  Allan  had  finally  re 
ceived  a  note  from  Asa  Craig  requesting  his  pres 
ence  again  where  his  work  was  being  neglected. 

The  letter  came  in  the  late  afternoon.  Jerry 
had  purposely  refrained  from  alluding  to  Ken 
nedy's  work,  or  the  need  they  had  for  his  ser 
vices  up  at  the  summit,  and  he  did  not  know 
that  Craig  had  written.  Allan  was  going,  but 
not  before  the  night.  As  the  twilight  fell  he 
sat  with  little  Dunny  on  his  knee,  the  quaint 
bit  of  a  man  holding  to  his  hand  and  wanly 
smiling  in  content.  Jerry  came  in  from  his 
office.  He  stood  looking  down  at  little  Dunny, 
after  greeting  them  all,  an  expression  of  infinite 
tenderness  upon  his  face. 

"How's  the  little  man  by  now?"  he  asked. 

"Pretty  well,"  said  Dunny.  "I  came  back 
home  all  the  same." 

' '  You  bet ! "  agreed  the  mountaineer.  ' '  Want 
to  have  a  ride?" 

"What  on?"  inquired  the  little  chap.  "On 
Jack?" 

"No,  on  me — just  packin'  you  up  and  down," 
said  Jerry. 

171 


DUNNY 

Dunny  held  up  his  arms  and  nodded  his 
answer.  Such  rides  as  these  had  been  of  untold 
comfort  to  his  tired  little  body  since  Jerry's 
arrival.  So  up  and  down  the  two  proceeded, 
Allan  and  Sylvia  watching  quietly.  The  hour 
was  one  of  peace  for  them  all,  as  if  a  truce  had 
been  declared  between  unseen  but  warring  forces. 

Allan  remained  there  for  dinner.  He  had  an 
nounced  that  he  was  going,  and  Mrs.  Hank  had 
particularly  desired  him  to  remain  and  dine  with 
the  family  before  he  went. 

Those  were  moonlit  nights,  and  the  moon  is 
warmer  than  the  sun  on  the  hearts  of  youth  in 
the  plight  of  love.  Sylvia,  vaguely  unhappy 
and  also  vaguely  joyous  in  all  her  being  over 
thoughts  of  Allan  and  Jerry,  and  of  partings 
and  longings,  and  facing  things  to  follow,  slip 
ped  out  into  the  garden,  where  the  silver  light 
gave  a  newer  and  chaster  beauty  to  the  flowers, 
sprung  from  seeds  and  shoots  in  answer  co  her 
summons. 

Fragrance  of  mountain  air  was  coming  and 
going  in  balmy  currents.  Peace  and  calm  and 
beauty  such  as  night  alone  may  foster  folded 
all  the  world.  The  first  shy  harpings  of  crickets 
had  begun.  A  million  unseen  sprites  were  fill 
ing  space  with  essences  that  stirred  the  heart 
to  ecstasies  too  fine  for  definition. 
172 


LOVE  WILL  FIND  THE  WAY 

With  lips  apart  and  eyes  uplifted  and  wide 
with  the  wonder  of  it  all,  Sylvia  gazed  into  the 
sky.  Unconsciously  her  hands  were  pressed 
upon  her  bosom.  She  seemed  particularly  beau 
tiful  and  sweet  in  her  quiet  mood.  She  had 
come  without  a  hat.  Her  hair,  so  gloriously 
black,  was  slightly  loosened,  crowning  her  head 
with  a  mass  of  ebon  in  wonderful  contrast  with 
her  snowy  neck  and  forehead. 

Slowly  she  walked  to  the  gate,  where  she 
stood  for  a  time,  enthralled  by  the  subtle  pas 
sions  of  the  hour.  Then  she  knew  that  Allan 
was  coming.  It  was  not  so  much  that  she  heard 
his  step  as  that  she  felt  his  spirit  seeking  hers 
in  the  open  air. 

She  did  not  turn,  and  he  presently  leaned 
against  the  gate  beside  her,  saying  not  a  word. 
Her  hand  was  on  one  of  the  palings.  Allan 
clutched  the  paling  next  to  hers,  where  their 
fingers  could  have  met.  Thus  they  stood  in 
silence,  each  convinced  that  the  other  must  hear 
how  loud  a  heart  may  beat. 

Allan  gazed  upon  her  face  in  the  softened 
light.  The  wonderful  lustre  of  her  eyes  was 
beyond  his  finest  conceptions  of  loveliness. 
Her  cheeks  and  chin  and  her  exquisite  throat 
beset  him  with  their  beauty. 

Such  increasing,  silent,  tumultuous  delight  as 
173 


DUNNY 

both  of  them  felt  was  perilous.  She  recognized 
its  danger  and  its  ecstasy.  Her  nature  was 
answering,  not  only  to  Allan's,  but  also  to  the 
night  and  to  the  moon — that  foster-mother  of 
the  tides  of  love.  She  knew  they  ought  to  talk. 
She  tried  to  think  of  something  commonplace 
to  say,  but  when  she  opened  her  lips  to  speak 
she  murmured: 

"And — you  are  going  away?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Are  you  glad?  Will  it  be 
a  relief?" 

She  was  trembling.  It  was  almost  as  if  he 
had  said,  "Is  it  Jerry — or  me?"  for  it  made  her 
think  of  everything  in  one  quick  flash  of  mental 
agitation. 

"Relief?"  she  said.  "You  have  been  very 
kind — to  Dunny — to  all  of  us,  I'm  sure." 

"But — even  then,"  he  insisted,  "we  can't 
pretend — "  and  there  he  halted. 

"Pretend — that  it  isn't  a — great  relief?"  she 
supplied,  in  a  stammer,  as  she  tried  to  smile  all 
seriousness  away. 

"I  didn't  start  to  say  precisely  that,"  he  con 
fessed,  but  he  failed  to  proceed  with  an  explana 
tion. 

He  feared  to  voice  the  things  that  were  clam 
oring  within  him  for  utterance.  He  preferred 
not  to  hear  her  say  again  that  she  must  hold  to 
174 


LOVE  WILL   FIND  THE  WAY 

her  promise,  made  to  Jerry  Kirk.  Even  this 
present  uncertainty  of  his  fate  was  sweeter 
than  anything  he  had  ever  known  in  all  his  life. 
They  were  silent  again  for  a  moment. 

"You  will  have  a  lovely  night,"  said  Sylvia, 
faintly.  Every  pleasure,  alarm,  and  hunger  in 
possession  of  Allan's  heart  was  likewise  ram 
pant  in  her  own. 

"It  is  beautiful  now — but  it  won't  be  after 
I've  gone  from  here — I  mean  for  me,"  he  said. 

Her  nature,  not  her  reason,  prompted,  and 
she  asked  him: 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  Sylvia — don't  you  know?"  he  answered. 

Her  heart  was  leaping ;  her  breath  came  swift 
ly.  She  could  not  reply. 

"It  will  lose  its  beauty  for  me  because  I've 
got  to  leave — little  Dunny — and  you,"  added 
Allan,  in  a  moment. 

His  mention  of  Dunny,  in  such  a  way  as  this, 
did  more  than  a  thousand  protestations  to  pos 
sess  her  heart  with  a  love  grown  instantly  all- 
powerful.  The  splendid  things  he  had  done, 
even  in  the  snow-blockaded  train,  and  now  here 
in  Tamarack,  endeared  him  anew  in  a  manner 
overwhelming.  And  yet  her  self  -  control  was 
not  entirely  swept  away.  She  trembled,  but 
her  sense  of  loyalty  to  Jerry  could  not  be  com- 
175 


DUNNY 

pletely  stifled.  It  was  battling — sheer  battling 
with  her  own  young  nature — when  she  made 
herself  reply  in  apparent  calm: 

"We  shall  miss  you — both  of  us — I'm  sure." 

He  was  breathing  with  difficulty.  He  clutch 
ed  the  paling  with  all  his  might,  to  restrain  his 
hand  from  seeking  hers. 

"Much?"  he  asked.  "Sylvia — shall  you  miss 
me  very  much?" 

Her  nature  was  winning  against  her  logic  and 
her  judgment.  In  a  sort  of  despair  she  said: 

"Oh,  Allan,  don't  ask  me,  please." 

The  joy  that  came  when  she  called  him  Al 
lan  was  swiftly  modified  by  what  he  knew  she 
meant.  Yet  love  is  a  conquering  force;  it 
knows  no  defeat.  It  swayed  him  now  despite 
himself. 

"I  can't  keep  it  back,"  he  said.  "Sylvia, 
how  could  I  keep  it  back?  I  didn't  know  any 
thing  about — anything,  at  first;  I  only  knew  I 
loved  you — and  loved  you — and  loved  you — 
and  it  can't  be  helped!" 

His  spoken  words  of  love  leaped  to  her  heart 
as  if  for  sanctuary;  and,  as  if  to  shield  them 
there  in  a  safe  retreat,  her  bosom  gave  them 
rapturous  welcome,  and  she  clasped  her  hands 
protectingly  above  her  heart.  All  her  being 
surged  with  excitement.  The  feeling  that  love 
176 


LOVE  WILL  FIND  THE  WAY 

is  in  the  air  is  sweet,  the  knowledge  of  its  hover 
ing  thrills  the  soul  to  ecstasy,  but  to  hear  it 
declared — by  a  voice  as  dear  as  life — this  is  the 
deepest  joy  of  all.  Surprise  that  is  almost  fear, 
that  yet  is  pure  delight,  comes  with  the  murmur 
of  the  word  itself,  the  word  that  may  never 
thereafter  be  repeated  once  too  often. 

Sylvia  swayed  with  a  flood  of  happiness 
sweeping  torrentially  through  her  being.  She 
knew  not  what  she  should  do.  But  nature  was 
there  to  prompt.  Therefore  it  was  that  she  looked 
upon  him  for  a  moment  with  eyes  in  which  the 
beacons  were  illumined  —  the  beacons  that  are 
never  lighted  save  to  guide  a  man  to  his  home. 

"Allan,"  she  said,  in  a  faint,  sweet  voice — 
"Allan — what  are  you  saying?" 

"You  knew  it,"  he  answered.  "It  had  to  be. 
I  love  you  so  much  I  can't  seem  to  care  for  any 
thing  else.  I  know  it's  folly.  I  know  it  isn't 
even  fair — but  God  and  you  are  stronger  than 
I,  and  love  has  got  the  best  of  me.  I'll  go  away 
—I've  got  to  go — but,  Sylvia,  tell  me — do  you 
think  there  is  just  a  little  hope?" 

She  knew  he  was  thinking  of  her  promise  to 
Jerry  Kirk.  He  made  no  attempt  to  blur  the 
facts  or  even  to  confuse  her  sense  of  the  right. 
She  loved  him  the  more  for  his  honest  facing  of 
the  truth. 

177 


DUNNY 

"How  can  I  tell  you,  Allan?"  she  replied. 
"How  can  I  know?" 

Throughout  it  all  he  had  held  at  least  his 
hands  in  check,  but  now  they  went  quickly  to 
one  of  hers  and  covered  it  in  a  fond  caress  that 
gave  her  yet  another  infinite  thrill  of  emotion. 

She  made  no  effort  to  disturb  the  clasp  in 
which  he  held  her  fingers. 

"You  can  tell  me  one  little  thing,"  he  said, 
excitedly  "Do  you  care  for  me,  Sylvia — even 
just  a  little?" 

She  dared  not  trust  herself  to  speak,  but  she 
laid  her  other  hand  on  his — and  that  was  answer 
sufficient. 

The  door  of  the  house  was  suddenly  shut  with 
unnecessary  noise.  The  pair  at  the  gate  were 
warned  and  startled  by  the  sound. 

"Hullo!"  called  Jerry  from  the  porch.  "Has 
Kennedy  gone  without  good-bye  to  Dunny  and 
Mrs.  Hank — and  me?" 

"No.  Just  getting — ready  to  start,"  stam 
mered  Allan,  as  calmly  as  he  could.  "I  hope 
little  Dunny  hasn't  gone  to  sleep." 

He  and  Sylvia  came  up  the  path  at  once. 
They  could  not  see  the  glint  in  Jerry's  eyes; 
they  did  not  know  he  had  seen  enough  to  kindle 
the  passion  in  his  heart  to  a  fierce,  consuming 
flame. 


XX 
A  BATTLE   ON   THE   HILL 

ERRY  remained  in  the  house  only 
long  enough  to  see  Kennedy  depart, 
with  only  a  formal  good-bye  to  Sylvia, 
then  he  said  good-night  himself  and 
went  away.  But  he  knew  not  where 
he  was  going. 
He  had  held  himself  in  a  grip  of  apparent 
calm,  he  had  even  tried  to  smile  while  in  Syl 
via's  presence,  but  her  keen  perceptions  had 
pierced  his  mask  and  fear  had  come  in  her 
heart.  Outside,  in  the  open  air,  he  seemed  to 
release  all  the  hounds  of  anger  in  his  nature. 
His  eyes  were  ablaze,  his  jaws  were  set  as  he 
strode  away  from  the  house  —  he  knew  not 
whither. 

Presently  pausing,  he  took  off  his  cap  and 
crushed  it  savagely  in  his  hands.  A  big,  strong 
man  in  every  way  was  Kirk,  with  all  of  a  natural 
man's  emotions.  His  love  for  Sylvia  was  the 
greatest  emotion  he  had  ever  conceived.  He 
179 


DUNNY 

loved  her  savagely  and  tenderly,  selfishly  and 
yet  with  infinite  generosity,  passionately  also, 
but  again  with  the  fostering  affection  of  a  par 
ent.  To-night  had  brought  the  culmination  of 
bitterness  that  all  the  recent  happenings  had 
called  into  being.  He  knew  that  Sylvia's  heart 
was  gone,  irrevocably,  to  Allan  Kennedy.  It 
was  Allan  who  had  been  vouchsafed  every  op 
portunity  to  do  some  splendid  thing — and  he 
had  been  sufficient  of  a  man  to  meet  the  mo 
ment.  Moreover,  fate  had  given  him  youth  in 
addition  to  it  all! 

For  a  moment,  as  he  stood  there  in  the  moon 
lit  road  alone,  the  mountaineer  was  tempted  to 
hasten  after  Kennedy  and  choke  the  life  from 
his  body.  If  it  had  not  been  for  him,  the  whole 
affair  must  have  come  before  this  to  a  happy 
conclusion.  If  only  Allan  could  be  banished 
from  the  scene  at  once,  it  might  not  yet  be  too 
late.  Anger,  jealousy,  the  outraged  feelings  of 
one  who  finds  himself  being  robbed  of  every 
precious  thing,  surged  upward  to  Jerry's  brain. 
He  started  as  if  to  seek  for  Kennedy,  but  halt 
ed  once  more  to  crush  the  cap  in  his  powerful 
hands;  and  he  swayed  in  his  tracks  with  the 
force  of  his  agitation. 

He  presently  strode  off  blindly  towards 
the  mountains.  Squat  upon  the  earth,  like  a 
180 


A  BATTLE  ON  THE   HILL 

Buddha,  prodigious  in  dimensions  and  infinite  in 
calm,  the  massive  sculpturing  of  immensity  rose 
before  the  tortured  man  and  gave  him  welcome. 
Up  the  mighty  knees  of  rock  and  sand  he  climb 
ed  in  the  lust  of  his  strength  and  rage.  The 
moonlight  modelled  him  out  against  the  gray  of 
gravel  and  granite,  a  splendid  figure  hewn  out 
rough  and  large  and  magnified  at  present  by  his 
own  up-moving  shadow,  black  as  ink. 

He  hoped  to  wear  down  his  muscles  and  with 
them  the  anger  possessing  his  being.  He  made 
no  confessions  to  himself,  and  yet  he  knew  he 
was  waging  war  against  the  ego  of  his  own 
ungovernable  nature.  When  he  panted,  his 
strength  was  increasing.  Scorning  the  gentler 
slopes  and  clearer  way,  he  smashed  through 
underbrush  that  grew  on  the  steepest  rise,  and 
felt  at  least  he  was  getting  the  better  of  the 
huge  acclivity. 

Not  till  he  startled  a  gaunt  coyote  from  the 
manzanita  and  saw  its  fear,  as  it  looked  at  him 
once  and  fled  away,  did  he  think  of  pausing. 
Then  he  stood  there  watching  where  it  had  gone. 
He  wondered  if  Kennedy  also  would  have  sped 
away  at  his  near  approach.  No,  the  man  was 
a  man!  But  Sylvia?  Ay,  she  would  fear  him 
could  she  know  him  in  a  mood  like  this.  He  felt 
ashamed  to  think  he  could  give  her  a  fright. 
181 


DUNNY 

He  suddenly  felt  a  revulsion  come  upon  him 
— a  something  akin  to  abhorrence  of  himself. 
But  the  night  was  working  its  spell  upon  his 
nature.  Love  was  in  him,  and  here — how  lone 
ly  was  his  climb! 

He  thought  of  Kennedy,  doubtless  somewhere 
out  in  the  open,  as  he  travelled  back  to  Millsite, 
on  the  summit.  But  with  what  a  different  feel 
ing  in  his  breast  did  the  younger  man  go  dream 
ing  through  the  mountain  silences! 

Bitterness  came  over  Jerry  again,  increased  by 
the  thought  of  Allan's  very  youth.  The  moun 
taineer  was  ready  to  fling  all  youth  to  the  yawn 
ing  abyss,  where  the  canon  held  its  fathoms  on 
fathoms  of  shadow.  His  eyes  were  resting  idly 
on  a  sapling  pine.  Presently  noting  the  sym 
metry  and  youth  of  the  growing  tree,  the  man 
laid  hold  upon  it  and  wrenched  it  from  the 
ground.  Its  roots  came  up  like  fingers  clutch 
ing  a  fistful  of  gravel.  Jerry  flung  it  down  the 
slope,  and,  descending  on  another  young  pine, 
tore  it  likewise  from  its  hold. 

A  larger  tree  was  growing  near.  Like  a  fury 
the  man  laid  hold  of  its  trunk  and  tugged  in 
all  the  lust  of  his  anger  and  passion.  It  held 
to  its  place.  He  caught  it  lower  down  and 
lifted  like  a  giant,  but  to  no  avail.  In  wrath 
he  took  it  as  a  wrestler  closes  with  a  rival, 
182 


A  BATTLE   ON  THE   HILL 

and,  straining,  panting,  wrenching  with  tremen 
dous  force,  expended  his  utmost  strength  to  tear 
it  up.  The  tree  resisted  stubbornly,  shaken 
though  it  was  from  tip  to  root. 

Twice  and  thrice  the  angered  mountaineer 
engaged  the  pine  and  gave  it  battle.  His  mus 
cles  swelled,  his  lungs  expanded,  his  big,  stout 
legs  were  rigid  as  steel,  and  his  face  was  purple 
with  engorging  blood,  but  he  presently  slipped 
on  a  rock  and  fell  to  the  sand,  defeated. 

"I  can't  pull  him  out  of  her  heart!"  he  panted, 
aloud,  in  a  sudden  perception  of  his  impotence. 
"I  can't  pull  him  out!" 

He  sat  there,  catching  explosive  lungfuls  of 
breath  and  staring  at  one  of  the  smaller  trees, 
prone  upon  the  earth  where  he  had  thrown  it 
in  his  rage.  Shame  came  creeping  upon  him. 
He  covered  his  face  from  the  moon,  in  his  arm, 
and  leaned  his  elbow  on  his  knee. 

"The  trees  had  a  right  to  live,"  he  said,  aloud, 
as  if  in  confession  to  the  mountain.  "They've 
got  a  right  to  be  young!" 

And  his  fight  with  himself  was  over,  and  won, 
although  he  remained  on  the  hill  throughout 
the  night. 


XXI 
TID   FLACK'S   DISCOVERY 

N  the  morning  Jerry  went  again  to 
Millsite,  where  attention  to  business 
made  his  presence  somewhat  essen 
tial.  He  was  glad  and  he  was  sorry 
to  go.  Purposely  refraining  from  any 
speech  that  might  be  disturbing  to 
Sylvia,  he  left  her  doubting  and  worried,  when 
his  only  intention  had  been  to  assure  her  peace 
of  mind. 

She  felt  she  had  done  this  friend  a  grievous 
wrong,  and  yet  she  could  see  no  way  in  which 
the  march  of  events  could  have  been  perceived 
or  prevented.  All  her  self  -  accusations,  more 
over,  could  not  suffice  to  extinguish,  or  even 
diminish,  the  happiness  welling  in  her  bosom. 
The  days,  the  beauties  of  the  earth  and  sky,  the 
songs  of  birds,  and  fragrance  of  grass  and 
flowers  served  to  increase  her  ecstasies  and  to 
fling  out  banners  of  beatitude  in  every  blush 
that  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  Joy  the  dominant, 
184 


TID  FLACK'S  DISCOVERY 

joy  the  irresponsible,  joy  the  madcap  of  emo 
tions  made  her  its  bower  by  day  and  its  shelter 
through  the  watches  of  the  night. 

That  morning  particularly  sweet  delight  was 
upon  her,  for  Dunny  was  mending  so  bravely  as 
to  walk  about  and  sit  on  the  porch  in  the  sun. 
She  placed  him  there  herself,  and  plucked  him 
flowers  to  put  in  a  vase  of  water.  She  even  led 
his  blind  little  burro  from  the  shed  to  where 
he  was  sitting,  and  watched  the  two  in  their 
friendly  demonstrations  of  companionship. 

"You  ran  away — nashy  Jack!"  scolded  the 
little  fellow,  fondly.  But  the  moment  a  tear 
came  trickling  down  from  one  of  Jack's  poor, 
sightless  eyes,  that  watered  still  with  pain,  little 
Dunny  was  loving  the  helpless  creature  in  child 
ishly  tender  remorse. 

"We  have  awful  bad  times,"  he  said.  "We're 
just  like  the  babes  in  the  wood — only  pretty  soon 
we'll  be  all  well  again  and  going  barefoot  and 
everything." 

Jack  was  led  to  his  quarters.  When  Sylvia 
came  once  more  to  the  porch  she  found  Tid 
Flack  upon  the  scene,  beaming  mightily,  a  pair 
of  high-topped  leather  boots  in  his  hand. 

"Weaver,"  she  heard  him  saying,  "you're  im 
portant.  I  knowed  it  the  minute  I  seen  you 
first,  and  you  gittin'  lost  by  a  donkey!  Didn't 
13  185 


DUNNY 

I  always  say  that  animals  is  different  ?  Some  is 
critters  and  some  is  brutes."  Then  he  noted 
Sylvia's  approach.  "Good-mornin',  miss,"  he 
said,  with  a  wave  of  the  boots.  "I  came  to  tell 
you  Weaver  is  important." 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Flack,"  said  Sylvia,  cord 
ially.  "It's  very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure." 

"His  name  is  Tid,  for  short,"  said  Dunny. 

"Weaver  knows,"  said  Tid.  "But  he  don't 
know  what  I've  got." 

"Boots!"  said  the  small  convalescent. 

"Well,  yes  —  and  no,"  said  Tid,  with  solemn 
gravity.  "I  always  did  say  it,  Weaver,  that  pro 
crastination  is  the  noblest  work  of  God;  and 
what  am  I  good  for  if  it  ain't  to  know  my 
business?" 

"You're  good  to  fix  donkeys,"  promptly  re 
sponded  little  Dunny. 

"And  to  find  little  boys,"  added  Sylvia. 
"Are  the  boots  to  be  mended,  Mr.  Flack?" 

"Now,  there's  the  point.  What  did  I  say?" 
replied  the  cobbler.  "Procrastination! — you 
can't  tell  me!  Them  boots,  Weaver,  belonged 
one  time  to  your  father." 

Sylvia  looked  at  him,  startled. 

"Those  boots  belonged  to  father?"   she  re 
peated.     "Oh,  I  shall  be  very,  very  glad,  indeed, 
to  have  them  just  as  they  are!" 
186 


TID   FLACK'S  DISCOVERY 

"That's  what  I  says  to  myself,"  said  Tid,  still 
retaining  the  boots.  "He  brought  'em  in  to  be 
patched  up,  miss,  and  I  set  'em  aside,  and  then 
—well,  you  know  the  ways  of  Providence  is 
curious  —  not  a  bit  like  cobblin'  —  and  there 
they've  been  ever  since." 

"His  very  boots!"  said  Sylvia,  more  to  her 
self  than  to  Tid. 

Dunny  ventured:  "You  couldn't  cut  them 
down  for  me.  Boots  ain't  the  same  as  pants." 

"And  that's  why  I  say  that  Weaver  is  im 
portant — and  you,  too,  miss,"  added  Tid,  "for 
your  father  left  a  paper  inside  of  one  of  the 
boots,  and  procrastination  keeps  it  safe  and 
sound  till  I  found  it  there  this  mornin'." 

"A  paper?"  echoed  Sylvia,  putting  forth  her 
hand  to  take  the  boots.  "What  sort  of  a 
paper?" 

"It  ain't  in  'em  no  longer,  miss,"  said  the 
cobbler,  dropping  the  footgear  on  the  porch 
and  thrusting  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  "Never 
trust  a  pair  of  boots  too  long,  or  first  you  know 
they'll  go  walkin'  off.  There  you  are,  and  I 
must  say  Weaver  is  important." 

The  paper  that  Sylvia  took  from  his  hand 

trembled  in  her  grasp.     She  was  stirred  by  all 

the  forces  of  mystery,  as  if  she  were  face  to  face 

with  a  message  from  the  dark,  inscrutable  be/* 

187 


DUNNY 

yond.  No  sooner  had  she  bended  back  the 
folded  sheets  and  glanced  at  the  writing  than 
she  knew  the  document  for  what  it  was — a  will. 

In  unabated  agitation  she  read  it  through, 
discovering  first  that  her  father  had  left  a  cer 
tain  section  or  parcel  of  land,  across  the  border 
of  the  state,  to  Dunny  and  herself,  and,  second, 
that  provision  had  been  made  for  the  safety  of 
the  property  through  certain  means  which  she 
failed  at  first  to  comprehend.  She  presently 
understood,  however,  that  her  father,  by  this 
testament,  appointed  Asa  Craig  as  guardian 
over  Dunny,  and  also  as  executor  and  trustee 
of  the  property  in  question — unless  she  herself 
should  marry  some  man  "of  reputed  business 
sagacity  and  over  the  age  of  thirty-five  years," 
in  which  event  the  husband  so  espoused  should 
thereupon  assume  the  duties  of  said  guardian, 
trustee,  and  executor. 

As  she  read,  the  cobbler  watched  her  with  the 
greatest  satisfaction. 

"This  is  very  important,  indeed,"  she  told 
him,  presently. 

"Is  it  a  letter  from  papa?"  said  Dunny,  who 
knew  of  his  father  only  through  the  letters  that 
had  come  those  many  years.  "Did  he  send 
any  love  to  me?" 

Sylvia  went  to  him  and  kissed  him.  "Yes, 
188 


TID   FLACK'S   DISCOVERY 

dearie,  yes,"  she  said.  "It's  all  his  love  for  you 
and  me." 

"Important?  Didn't  I  say  so  all  the  time?" 
inquired  Tid,  as  proud  as  Punch.  "Procrasti 
nation  never  fools  around  with  things  that  ain't 
important." 

"I  must  send  for  Mr.  Kirk  at  once,"  said 
Sylvia.  "I  don't  know  Mr.  Craig." 

"The  hawks  all  know  him,"  said  the  cobbler, 
with  one  of  his  awe-inspiring  winks.  "He's 
lord  high  chief  hawk  of  'em  all,  for  business." 

"Is  any  one  going  to  Millsite  pretty  soon?" 
inquired  Sylvia.  "Could  any  one  ask  Mr.  Kirk 
to  come  right  down?" 

"Young  Morris  has  to  take  up  a  stage  horse 
just  about  now,"  replied  Mr.  Flack.  "I'll  go 
and  tell  him  right  away." 

He  went  and  caught  the  messenger,  and  late 
that  afternoon  big  Jerry  appeared  at  Mrs. 
Hank's,  a  worry  visible  in  his  eyes,  for  he  had 
not  been  informed  of  the  nature  of  the  "trouble," 
and  had  feared  little  Dunny  must  have  suffered 
a  sudden  relapse. 

His  relief,  when  Sylvia  stated  the  need  she 
had  for  counsel,  was  a  thing  she  felt.  It  made 
him  nearer  and  dearer,  even  as  the  will,  which 
required  that  she  should  seek  his  aid,  had  taught 
her  how  very  much,  indeed,  he  was  to  them  both. 
189 


DUNNY 

He  read  the  paper  through  without  apparent 
emotion,  although  it  held  so  much  affecting  him 
that  his  heart  was  fairly  pounding  in  his  breast. 

"I'm  glad  he  left  you  some  property,"  he  said, 
stifling  a  jealous  pang  at  the  thought  that 
Weaver  might  have  made  himself,  instead  of 
Craig,  the  guardian.  "We'll  get  it  into  court, 
and  proved,  at  once." 


XXII 
THE    HAND    OF  ASA  CRAIG 


0  one  had  known  that  Henry  Weaver 
died  in  possession  of  a  tract  of  land, 
for  the  reason  that  the  land  in  ques 
tion  was  situated  across  the  border 
of  the  state,  and  therefore  nothing 
could  possibly  appear  on  the  records 
in  the  section  where  he  had  lived  and  met  his 
end.  Now,  however,  there  was  no  opposition  to 
the  early  probation  of  the  will,  and  all  who  knew 
of  its  terms  were  glad  for  little  Dunny  and 
Sylvia. 

Asa  Craig,  made  all  important  in  their  lives 
by  the  document,  had  not  appeared  at  Tama 
rack,  nor  did  he  seem  disposed  to  come  and 
meet  his  little  ward.  The  will,  to  him,  meant 
very  much  more  than  any  mere  feeling  of  foster- 
parenthood — it  meant  something  very  near  to 
ownership  in  a  timbered  acreage  of  very  great 
value  indeed. 

No  sooner  had  the  man  become  aware  of  the 
191 


DUNNY 

metes  and  bounds  of  the  land  intrusted  to  his 
keeping  than  he  realized  what  a  force  it  lent  to 
his  own  heretofore  somewhat  helpless  position. 
In  connection  with  the  properties  owned  and 
operated  by  himself  and  Jerry  Kirk,  this  new 
acquisition  was  exceedingly  important. 

The  man  had  always  been  shrewd,  scheming, 
and  dangerous  in  his  business  association  with 
Jerry.  He  had  taken  powers  unto  himself  in 
sidiously,  building  up  his  strength  at  every  turn 
to  make  himself  the  master  of  the  enterprise  they 
had  brought  into  being  together.  He  had  previ 
ously  reached  too  soon  for  the  lever  of  control, 
and  Jerry  had  seen  and  blocked  his  game,  but 
only  by  the  weight  of  greater  possessions  in  the 
company's  lands  and  assets.  Now,  however, 
the  tide  had  suddenly  turned,  and  Craig,  as  sole 
trustee  over  all  the  Weaver  holdings,  let  his 
new-found  force  lie  unsuspected  while  he  cau 
tiously  fostered  his  plans. 

Craig  was  a  busy,  dominant  figure  at  the 
Millsite  plant.  A  saw-mill  there  was  running 
day  and  night;  a  pair  of  small  locomotives  ran 
back  and  forth  from  the  timber-lands,  trundling 
cars  with  monster  logs  to  be  reduced  to  lumber; 
and  a  force  of  men  and  teams  worked  ceaselessly 
to  fetch  in  fuel-wood  from  many  a  mountain 
fastness,  while  always  a  gang  was  toiling  to  feed 
192 


THE   HAND  OF  ASA  CRAIG 

both  wood  and  lumber  to  the  flume,  in  which  it 
scudded  swiftly  down  to  Tamarack  below. 

There  were  two  men  only,  of  all  the  busy 
horde  at  Millsite  camp,  who  had  no  fear  of  Asa 
Craig.  One  was  Jerry,  the  second  Allan  Ken 
nedy.  The  others  —  foremen,  teamsters,  engi 
neers,  and  common  laborers — dreaded  the  man 
of  iron  purpose,  and  knew  him  only  for  a  fierce, 
sharp-spoken,  masterful  device  of  energy  and 
keenness,  who  was  everywhere  at  once,  alert  as 
a  panther,  and  quick  as  a  hawk  to  see  and  pounce 
upon  a  failing. 

Therefore,  when  he  disappeared  one  day,  after 
all  the  court  proceedings  regarding  the  will  had 
been  completed,  there  was  no  rejoicing,  but  only 
vague  unrest  concerning  what  his  mission  might 
imply. 

He  was  gone  three  days,  and  when  he  came 
again  to  his  place,  a  certain  glitter  had  developed 
in  his  eyes  that  boded  no  good  for  any  man 
about.  During  his  absence  Allan  Kennedy  had 
been  exceptionally  busy.  Indeed,  since  that 
short  vacation  time  spent  at  Tamarack  on  ac 
count  of  little  Dunny's  escapade  and  resulting 
illness,  Allan's  days  had  been  so  closely  occupied 
that  he  could  not  visit  Sylvia,  not  even  for  a 
Sunday. 

A  clever  man  at  business  himself,  and  enjoy- 
193 


DUNNY 

ing  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  lumber  indus 
try  in  all  its  varied  aspects,  Kennedy  rilled  an 
important  place  in  the  company's  affairs,  over 
seeing  a  hundred  details  branching  out  too 
widely  for  Craig  himself  to  follow.  He  was 
Craig's  own  man,  and  even  Jerry  Kirk  had 
nothing  to  say  concerning  his  employment. 

To-day,  when  Craig  appeared  unexpectedly 
at  his  post,  Kennedy  was  summoned  to  his 
presence.  He  entered  the  office  briskly,  noting 
at  once  a  subtle  change,  suggestive  of  increasing 
force  and  confidence,  come  upon  his  chief. 

Craig  was  a  man  of  medium  height.  He  was 
slender,  and  neatly  dressed  in  black.  His  hair 
was  white  as  snow,  his  face  clean-shaven  and 
firm.  Thus  far  he  might  have  been  common 
place  enough.  His  eyes,  however,  were  the 
coldest  gray,  deeply  set  in  his  head,  under  over 
hanging  brows  as  bushy  as  mustaches  and 
white  as  his  hair,  while  his  nose  suggested  an 
eagle's  beak.  The  width  of  his  jaws,  the 
strength  of  his  chin,  and  the  thinness  of  his  lips 
served  to  emphasize  a  countenance  as  stern  as 
one  is  likely  to  imagine. 

"Kennedy — how's  everything?"  he  demand 
ed,  turning  aggressively  about  as  Allan  closed 
the  door. 

"Running  smoothly,  as  usual,"  said  Allan. 
194 


THE  HAND  OF  ASA  CRAIG 

"The  water  supply  is  better  than  we  thought. 
I  found  a  leak  at  one  of  the  feeders  and  had  it 
repaired." 

"Gone  on  just  as  well  without  me  as  with  me, 
I  suppose?"  said  Craig,  in  his  way  of  brusque 
demand. 

Allan  smiled.     "I  think  so,"  he  replied. 

"Huh!  You  think  so,  do  you?  And  about 
how  long  could  you  keep  it  up  if  I  were  to  die?" 

"As  long  as  the  timber  remains  to  be  cut  on 
company  land,"  said  Allan,  without  the  slightest 
boastfulness  or  hesitation. 

Craig  was  secretly  pleased.  He  admired  the 
younger  man  exceedingly,  not  only  for  his  fine 
ability,  but  also  because  he  was  not  afraid. 

"You'd  run  me  out  if  you  got  the  chance," 
he  said,  however,  in  his  blunt,  uncompromising 
way.  "I'll  see  how  things  are  looking  later  on. 
I  got  you  here  to  talk  of  something  else.  Have 
you  got  any  money?" 

"I  don't  depend  entirely  upon  my  salary," 
answered  Allan.  "I've  got  a  few  odd  dollars 
laid  away." 

"Five  thousand,  say?" 

"  Five  thousand ?     Yes." 

"I  thought  so!"  Craig  was  glaring  at  him 
savagely,  as  if  he  felt  the  money  had  made  the 
young  man  independent.  "Huh!  Well,  Ken- 
195 


DUNNY 

nedy,  what  do  you  say  to  taking  up  a  mortgage, 
with  your  money  and  some  that  I  can  let  you 
have,  and  coming  into  the  company  with  me?" 

Allan  said,  "Who  is  the  mortgagor?" 

Craig  looked  him  over  sharply;  the  glitter 
increased  in  his  eyes. 

"Jerry  Kirk,"  he  said. 

Allan  faced  him  unflinchingly  and  thought  it 
out.  He  felt,  but  he  could  not  be  certain,  that 
this  was  a  bit  of  business  with  which  Jerry  Kirk 
was  entirely  unacquainted. 

"Isn't  Mr.  Kirk  quite  satisfied  with  his  pres 
ent  mortgagee?"  he  inquired. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  demanded 
Craig.  "I  want  that  mortgage  here — I  want  it 
in  my  own  hands." 

"A  good  deal  more  in  your  hands  than  in 
mine,  perhaps,"  said  Allan. 

His  boldness  astonished  himself  no  less  than 
it  did  his  chief.  Craig  was  instantly  affronted, 
but  he  knew  the  younger  man  was  tempered 
steel. 

' '  No ! "  he  said .  ' '  The  mortgage  will  be  yours. 
Kirk  has  been  too  big  in  this  house,  and  now 
I'm  going  to  take  a  hand." 

"I  like  and  admire  Jerry  Kirk  very   much 
indeed,"  Allan  told  him,  honestly.     "I'd  rather 
not  disturb  the  mortgage,  if  you  please." 
196 


THE   HAND  OF  ASA  CRAIG 

"Well,  I  don't  please!"  cried  Craig,  striking 
the  table  with  his  fist  till  the  ink-well  and  paper 
danced.  "I  thought  you  and  Kirk  were  rivals. 
What  do  I  hear  of  you  being  after  that  girl  that 
Jerry  wants  to  marry?" 

Allan  colored.  "You  haven't  heard  anything 
from  me,"  he  said,  "and  probably  nothing  from 
Mr.  Kirk." 

"Can't  anybody  talk  but  you  or  Kirk?"  de 
manded  the  chief,  with  his  eyes  sharply  focused 
on  Kennedy's  face.  "You  don't  deny  the 
story?" 

"I  don't  propose  to  drag  it  in,"  said  Allan. 

Craig  was  piqued.  He  could  neither  frighten, 
excite,  nor  allure  his  man  into  indiscretions  of 
speech.  The  present  bait  was  evidently  no 
temptation,  yet  he  gave  up  unwillingly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  got  the 
sense  to  take  a  legitimate  advantage  of  a  rival  ?" 
he  asked.  "Don't  be  a  fool." 

Allan  burned  with  shame  at  the  mere  sugges 
tion  of  taking  advantage  of  Jerry,  whom  he  felt 
he  had  almost  if  not  quite  wronged  already. 

"I  can't  understand  your  thinking  this  even 
possible,"  he  said.  "I  know  I  haven't  under 
stood  you  correctly."  He  added,  with  pointed 
significance:  "I  know  I  couldn't  understand. 
But  about  the  new  sugar-pine  logs  coming  in — " 
197 


DUNNY 

"Logs! — you're  a  log!"  interrupted  his  em 
ployer.  "Git  out  of  the  office!" 

Allan  was  instantly  angered  by  this  order. 

"I'm  out  of  my  office  now,"  he  said,  a  little 
hotly. 

Craig  looked  once  in  his  set,  young  face,  and 
knew  he  had  made  a  number  of  mistakes. 

"Then  go  back,"  he  said,  in  a  reasonable 
voice.  "And  watch  that  sugar-pine.  See  that 
Croson  hasn't  worked  in  any  yellow." 

Allan  went,  and  Asa  Craig  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  in  a  singular  mixture  of  emotions. 
He  was  certain  of  one  thing  through  it  all  that 
set  his  mind  at  rest.  It  was  simply  that  Allan 
Kennedy  would  no  more  tell  of  the  interview 
than  he  would  take  advantage  of  Kirk. 

But  certain  premonitions  that  had  come  to 
Jerry  at  the  reading  of  Weaver's  will  were  being 
swiftly  justified  by  the  scheming  thoughts  in  his 
partner's  mind.  Craig  had  the  power,  long  sought 
and  denied  him,  and  he  meant  to  force  Jerry  Kirk 
entirely  out  of  the  business,  practically  ruined. 

The  will  had  given  him  more  than  the  balance 
of  power.  The  lands  conveyed  to  his  guardian 
ship  were  not  only  adjacent  to  the  company 
roads,  but  the  timber  there  was  the  finest  and 
most  desirable  to  be  had  in  miles.  Moreover, 
the  water  supply  was  abundant  and  convenient, 
198 


THE   HAND   OF  ASA  CRAIG 

ready  at  hand  to  be  turned  at  once  into  the  com 
pany  flume  and  feeders,  so  that  Jerry's  lease 
of  water  rights  from  other  sources  would  pres 
ently  cease  to  be  an  asset  available  to  support 
his  weight  in  the  partnership  association. 

Craig  had  set  a  score  of  schemes  afoot  the 
moment  he  learned  of  the  stroke  of  fortune  which 
had  brought  things  hi  way  from  an  unexpected 
quarter.  Already  Jerry  Kirk  was  being  under 
mined  in  countless  directions. 

With  money  now  available,  Asa  Craig  had 
bought  up  three  of  Jerry's  mortgages  already. 
Everything,  moreover,  had  been  managed  with 
absolute  honesty  so  far  as  the  rights  of  the  two 
Weaver  heirs  were  concerned.  The  man  had 
simply  determined  to  cut  the  timber  on  the 
Weaver  land,  and  pay  himself  the  stumpage, 
according  to  the  ordinary  custom,  even  as 
Weaver  would  have  wished  it  done,  and  so  re 
lease  himself  from  exorbitant  contracts  made 
with  timber  owners  elsewhere,  who  were  keeping 
his  nose  to  the  grindstone  relentlessly. 

In  addition  to  other  advantages,  the  money 
for  stumpage  would  remain  in  his  hands,  by 
virtue  of  his  office  as  guardian,  and  thus,  with 
out  doing  the  slightest  injury  to  Sylvia  Weaver 
and  Dunny,  he  could  swing  a  power  overwhelm 
ingly  greater  than  Jerry's. 
199 


DUNNY 

The  bitterness  that  was  deep  enough  to  actu 
ate  this  subtle  and  deadly  hostility  against  his 
partner  had  been  of  slow  and  morbid  growth 
in  Asa  Craig.  It  had  started  with  a  jealousy 
of  Jerry's  popularity;  it  had  fed  on  pique  that 
his  partner  held  the  ultimate  control  of  all  the 
developing  industry;  it  had  fattened  at  last  on 
a  sheer  greed  of  might.  The  man  had  evolved 
a  mania  for  power.  His  one  consuming  lust 
was  his  determination  to  czar  it  absolutely  in 
the  mountains.  Friendships,  affections,  loyal 
ties — all  had  gone  down  before  that  one  mad 
appetite.  The  man  had  filtered  steel  through 
all  his  veins,  and  his  heart  was  alleged  to  be 
the  toughest  fibre  of  his  being. 

He  had  hoped  to  employ  the  business  perspi 
cacity  of  Allan  Kennedy  to  bring  about  his 
ends  a  little  indirectly.  It  was  he  who  had  sent 
Allan  down  to  Sylvia,  and  told  him  to  remain, 
when  Dunny's  troubles  had  been  at  their  height, 
but  he  had  done  it  solely  in  the  hope  of  fostering, 
if  not  creating,  a  rivalry  between  the  younger 
man  and  Jerry  Kirk,  for  plenty  of  talk  had  come 
concerning  the  two  through  Thomas  King  and 
Mrs.  Hank.  He  had  thought  to  entangle  the 
younger  man  as  an  element  on  whom  to  count, 
on  a  day  that  soon  would  come,  but  he  realized 
this  morning  he  must  do  his  work  alone. 
200 


XXIII 
ALLAN    BRAVES   AN    ORDEAL 


CALM,  unerring  conception  of  what 
it  might  forebode  had  been  vouch 
safed  to  Jerry  Kirk  when  he  read  the 
Weaver  will.  He  had  been  amazed 
that  Weaver  could  have  held  a  prop 
erty  so  valuable  with  never  a  word  to 
any  one,  but  more  than  this  had  been  the  hurt 
he  felt  to  think  his  friend  could  have  left  it  all 
in  charge  of  Asa  Craig,  giving  him  almost  a 
parent's  place  regarding  little  Dunny  and  Sylvia. 
That  Weaver  and  Craig  had  been  together  in 
the  civil  war,  and  that  Weaver  had  always  felt 
an  inordinate  admiration  for  Craig's  capabilities 
in  business,  could  hardly  soften  the  soreness 
that  Jerry  felt,  and  yet  he  had  done  his  very 
utmost  to  hasten  the  will  business  through  the 
court  without  delay. 

He  was  doubly  sore,  for,  after  all,  the  status 
of  affairs  with  Sylvia  affected  him  far  more 
deeply  than  anything  financial  ever  had  done 

14  2OI 


DUNNY 

or  ever  could.  He  loved  her,  yet  he  knew  she 
was  slipping  from  his  life.  He  had  fought  his 
fight  with  himself,  and  his  larger,  nobler  nature 
had  conquered;  nevertheless,  he  was  a  man, 
with  all  of  a  man's  primeval  stirrings  and  wants. 
If  possible,  Sylvia's  very  remoteness  from  his 
possession  made  his  love  the  greater.  He  felt 
like  a  brother  and  father  in  one  to  little  Dunny, 
but  only  like  a  lover,  mate,  and  protector  when 
his  thought  returned  to  Sylvia. 

He  kept  away  from  the  house,  however,  except 
as  business,  or  play  with  little  Dunny,  called  him 
there  from  time  to  time.  In  his  manner  there 
was  never  a  hint  of  his  anguish  of  heart,  nor  did 
accusation  greet  the  questioning  gaze  that  Sylvia 
so  often  bent  upon  him.  His  patience,  the  large 
ness  of  his  heart,  the  steadfast  loyalty  and  truth 
of  his  nature  —  these  made  him  dearer  to  her 
day  by  day.  She  understood  a  little  of  his 
deeper  feeling  also,  for  heart-despair  has  a  way 
of  showing  through  the  brightest,  merriest  twin 
kle  of  the  eyes,  and  Jerry  had  overmuch  to  bring 
him  despair  these  summer  days. 

Had  Jerry  spoken,  even  now,  while  Sylvia's 
bosom  heaved  at  every  memory  of  Allan's  con 
fession,  her  sense  of  gratitude  and  affection 
would  have  warmed  her  heart  so  softly  that  she 
would  certainly  have  given  him  her  hand,  to 
202 


ALLAN   BRAVES  AN   ORDEAL 

keep  forever.  But  he  did  not  dream  that  such 
a  thing  could  be,  and  he  would  not  ask,  in  his 
pride,  and  hear  her  beg  to  be  released. 

Thus,  though  the  summer  days  were  coming 
and  going  in  beauty  ineffable,  her  heart  was 
filled  with  many  doubts.  Neither  birds  that 
sang  so  blithesomely,  nor  crickets  chirping  of 
their  mating,  nor  dainty  wild  blossoms,  like 
chalices  filled  with  love  that  bees  were  fetching 
constantly,  could  make  her  wholly  content. 

Yet  ecstasy,  in  fine  independence  of  content, 
would  still  come  sweeping  upon  her  with  the 
stirring  of  the  trees  or  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night,  for  a  thousand  things  had  voice  enough 
to  whisper  of  Allan  Kennedy. 

Day  after  day  had  passed  without  a  sign  or 
a  word  from  Allan.  Sylvia  was  anxious.  She 
wondered  if  anything  had  happened  to  keep 
him  away.  Till  Jerry  should  speak,  till  some 
thing  should  be  definitely  settled,  she  knew  it 
would  be  better  and  safer  for  Allan  to  remain 
at  Millsite,  yet  she  found  it  hard,  indeed,  to 
endure  his  absence  during  days  like  these. 

She  and  Dunny  were  very  much  together, 
the  little  barefooted  chap  again  bringing  Jack 
into  requisition  and  riding  the  blind  and  patient 
little  animal  about  in  Sylvia's  care. 

Concerning  the  legacy  bequeathed  to  herself 
203 


DUNNY 

and  Dunny,  she  felt  a  great  satisfaction,  inas 
much  as  she  knew  she  could  some  day  repay 
Jerry  Kirk  for  what  he  had  done  and  was  doing. 
Beyond  this  point  she  had  no  knowledge  what 
soever  of  the  splendid  value  of  the  property  or 
the  power  it  gave  to  Asa  Craig. 

On  a  Sunday  morning  she  was  early  astir, 
and  traipsing  up  through  the  great  ravine, 
gathering  ferns  and  flowers  to  bedeck  the  little 
porch  of  the  house,  for  she  someway  felt  that 
Allan  Kennedy  would  come.  Such  a  charm  of 
summer  filled  the  world,  and  the  canon  in  par 
ticular,  that  she  could  not  resist  the  wish  that 
Allan  could  find  her  here  among  the  trees.  It 
almost  seemed  as  if  the  morning  sighed  with  a 
sense  of  its  own  perfected  loveliness.  Leaves 
and  birds  and  frisking  squirrels  all  seemed  to  be 
rejoicing  in  the  ardor  of  the  sun.  The  brook 
by  now  was  an  instrument  of  music,  furnishing 
laughter  and  tinkling  in  the  woodland  orches 
tration.  Down  through  the  fretwork  of  the 
trees  the  light  was  thrown,  till  it  dappled  all 
the  earth  and  grass  with  its  gold. 

But  Allan  failed  to  come  till  nine  o'clock,  and 
then  he  found  the  radiant  Miss  Sylvia  seated 
on  the  porch,  replacing  shoes  and  stockings  on 
her  small  brother's  feet  and  legs,  to  make  him 
more  presentable  and  in  keeping  with  the  day. 
204 


ALLAN   BRAVES  AN   ORDEAL 

He  was  glad  and  excited  at  Allan's  appear 
ance,  and  so  was  his  sister.  They  all  remained 
on  the  porch,  in  the  sunlight,  for  a  time,  and 
then  little  Dunny  wandered  off  to  look  for 
Timbnides  Flack. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you — or  Jerry — might  be 
down  to-day,"  said  Sylvia,  and  she  rose  to  walk 
towards  her  bed  of  flowers. 

"Well,  Jerry  isn't  coming,"  answered  Allan, 
as  he  followed  where  she  led.  "I  think  there  is 
trouble  brewing  at  the  camp." 

"Trouble  for  Jerry?"  she  inquired,  in  genuine 
concern.  "Oh,  I  hope  not  anything  real!  What 
sort  of  trouble?" 

"Trouble  with  his  partner,  Mr.  Craig,"  said 
Allan,  glad  to  share  his  burden  of  knowledge. 
"It  is  very  serious  indeed.  I  fear  that  Craig 
will  get  the  better  of  the  battle,  in  spite  of  any 
thing  that  Jerry  can  do." 

"They  haven't  quarrelled?"  asked  Sylvia. 
"Why,  they  are  friends  and  partners." 

"Yes — of  a  kind,"  agreed  Kennedy.  "But, 
you  see,  your  father's  will — "  He  checked  him 
self  abruptly. 

"My  father's  will?"  she  repeated.  "Yes — go 
on.  What  about  it?" 

"You  know  it  made  Mr.  Craig  trustee  over  all 
that  property,"  said  Allan.  "He  saw  what  he 
205 


DUNNY 

could  do,  and  he's  doing  it  now,  and  nothing — 
so  far  as  I  can  see — will  be  strong  enough  to 
stop  him  till  he  crushes  Jerry  out  and  leaves 
him  ruined." 

Sylvia  looked  at  him  in  doubt  and  perplexity, 
the  light  of  worry  swiftly  deepening  in  her  eyes. 

"Perhaps  I  don't  quite  understand,"  she  said. 
"The  will,  as  you  say,  made  Mr.  Craig  trustee 
and  executor  and  so  forth,  but  how  could  that 
affect  Mr.  Kirk?" 

"I'll  explain  it  as  I  understand  it,"  said 
Allan,  himself  a  champion  for  Jerry,  for  reasons 
he  haidly  comprehended  save  that  Jerry's  hold 
upon  his  affections  was  daily  increasing.  "I 
believe  Craig  has  been  trying  for  years  to  get 
control  of  the  company.  Jerry  has  been  too 
strong  for  him  up  to  now,  because  he  owned 
more  than  half  of  the  assets  in  the  business,  in 
his  personal  right,  and  could  swing  more  money. 
Now,  then,  this  will  comes  along — all  quite  right 
and  proper  and  wise  on  the  part  of  your  father 
— but  it  gives  Mr.  Craig  a  tremendous  advan 
tage." 

"What  has  he  done?"  she  asked,  breathlessly. 

"He    has    utterly    ruined    Jerry's    leases    on 

water  rights,  heretofore  good,  by  taking  water 

from  springs  now  as  good  as  his  own,  on  the 

Weaver  land.     He  has  cancelled  contracts  with 

206 


ALLAN   BRAVES  AN   ORDEAL 

other  men  for  logs,  and  will  cut  the  trees  on 
your  property  instead — as  he  has  a  perfect  right 
to  do,  and  ought  to  do,  as  the  trees  are  of  no 
account  to  you  until  they  are  sold  in  your 
behalf.  He  has  freed  his  own  money  and  can 
now  employ  not  only  that,  but  also  all  that 
accrues  to  Dunny's  credit,  and  he  has  bought 
up  Jerry's  mortgages,  to  foreclose  them  if  pos 
sible,  and  is  simply  pushing  him  bodily  against 
the  wall." 

"He's  a  monster — a  hideous  monster!"  said 
Sylvia,  white  with  anger,  and  with  fear  for 
Jerry. 

"A  monster,  perhaps,"  agreed  Kennedy,  "but 
not  a  rogue.  He  is  doing  it  all  honestly — so  far 
as  you  and  Dunny  and  all  purely  business  trans 
actions  are  concerned.  He  is  shrewd,  far-seeing, 
and  unrelenting.  He  has  found  he  can  do  it, 
and  he  means  to  own  the  business  completely." 

Sylvia  gazed  at  Allan's  face  in  horror. 

"Jerry  will  be — ruined!"  she  said. 

Allan  was  clinching  his  fists. 

"He  will,"  he  agreed.  "And  the  worst  of  it 
is,  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  way  in  the  world 
to  prevent  it.  Oh,  I  could  almost  strangle 
Craig  for  this !  A  better,  truer  man  than  Jerry 
never  lived!  I've  been  finding  it  out.  I've 
come  to  like  him  immensely.  It  seems  to  me 
207 


DUNNY 

I'd  do  almost  anything  to  help  him.  It's  devil 
try — cunning,  scheming  deviltry — on  the  part 
of  Craig!  It's  downright  meanness!  I  don't 
see  what  Jerry  can  do." 

"And  my  father's  will — did  it  all,"  said  Sylvia, 
pale  as  she  thought  it  out.  "I  wish  it  had  never 
been  found!  We've  brought  Jerry  nothing  but 
trouble.  And  he  has  never  said  a  word!  He 
endures  it  all,  in  his  generous,  big-hearted  way! 
But  he'll  hate  us  both.  My  father's  will — 

"Oh  no,  he  won't,"  interrupted  Allan.  "He 
wants  you  to  have  the  property.  He's  glad  of 
that.  He's  glad  the  will  was  found." 

"He  can't  be  glad,"  she  answered,  thinking  of 
all  of  Jerry's  blighted  hopes.  "We  shouldn't 
have  needed  the  property  if  only  I  had  kept — 
She  caught  herself,  and  did  not  add  "my  prom 
ise."  Nevertheless,  she  was  swiftly  reviewing 
the  situation.  She  saw  how  different  everything 
would  have  been  had  she  married  this  man  ac 
cording  to  her  agreement.  She  shamed  herself 
in  the  face  of  his  impending  ruin  and  shattered 
hopes. 

"But  the  will  would  have  come  to  light  at 
last,  some  day,"  argued  Allan.  "There  is  no 
use  regretting  it  was  found." 

A  sudden  remembrance  of  the  will  and  its 
oddness  of  provision  flashed  through  her  mind. 
208 


ALLAN   BRAVES  AN   ORDEAL 

"I  might  have  made  it  different,"  she  said. 
"I  could  make  it  different  now!  I  could  save 
it  all  for  Jerry — take  it  all  away  from  Mr. 
Craig!" 

"What?"  interrogated  Allan,  puzzled  for  a 
moment  by  her  words.  ' '  How  could  you  save — " 

"The  will  appointed  Mr.  Craig  —  unless  I 
should  marry  a  man  over  thirty-five  years  of 
age,"  she  interrupted,  swiftly.  "Allan — go  tell 
Jerry  Kirk  to  come  right  down  here,  to-day!" 

Kennedy  stared  at  her,  stunned  and  bewil 
dered. 

"Sylvia,  how  can  you  ask —  You  mean — 
you'll  marry  Jerry  Kirk — at  once?" 

"Of  course  I  will — I  must!"  she  answered. 
"I  want  you  to  go  up  and  tell  him  to  come  here 
without  a  moment's  delay!" 

"Go  up  and  tell  him?"  he  repeated.  "But, 
Sylvia,  I  love  you  myself.  I  told  you  so  before. 
I  came  to-day  to  ask — " 

"No!  No!"  she  interrupted.  "Stop,  Allan 
— don't  say  that  again.  It  can't  be  right.  It 
isn't  right.  I  want  you  to  go.  It's  all  there  is 
to  do." 

"Sylvia!"    said    he.     "Sylvia!     You    don't 
know   what    you    are    saying.     We    love   each 
other.     We  belong —     But  perhaps  you  don't 
really  love  me,  after  all." 
209 


DUNNY 

"I  do!"  she  said,  in  a  sudden  outburst  of 
confession.  "I  do!  I  can't  help  it.  I  didn't 
want  to  let  myself,  but  it  came — I  couldn't 
help  it.  I  love  you  dearly,  but  I  beg  you, 
Allan,  to  go  and  send  Jerry  here  without  an 
other  word." 

Her  voice  had  broken.  The  tears  had  come 
to  her  eyes  abruptly — with  firm  resolution  and 
softened  lights  of  love  for  company. 

Allan  took  her  hand. 

"But  how  can  I  go,  when  we  love  each  other 
so?"  he  said.  "I  can't.  Our  happiness — our 
rights—" 

"We  haven't  any  rights,"  she  interrupted, 
"not  with  Jerry  about  to  be  ruined!  I  can't 
do  anything  else  than  this.  I  promised.  I 
should  have  married  him  before.  It  hasn't  been 
fair — it  hasn't  been  right.  Please,  please  go  up 
and  tell  him — now!" 

"I  can't  give  you  up!"  he  said,  in  sudden 
passion.  "I  can't — I  won't  give  you  up!" 

"You  can — you  will — if  you  love  me,"  she 
answered,  in  her  strength.  "It's  the  only  thing 
to  do." 

"  It's  sacrifice,"  he  said.  "  It's  a  sacrifice  of  us 
both — of  love  and  happiness  and  everything — 
to  save  a  mere  piece  of  property." 

"It's  sacrifice  of  Jerry  if  I  don't!"  she  cried. 
210 


ALLAN  BRAVES  AN   ORDEAL 

lfHe  brought  us  here  when  we  were  poor  and 
needy  and  hopeless.  I  came  here  to  be  his 
wife.  I  could  never  have  met  you  or  loved 
you  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him.  He  has  given  us 
everything,  and  we  have  given  him  nothing! 
He  is  being  ruined,  all  on  account  of  us — and 
he  makes  no  complaint — doesn't  even  ask  me  to 
keep  to  my  promise!  How  he  must  have  suf 
fered,  all  these  weeks!  Do  you  think  he  doesn't 
see — doesn't  know  about  you  and  me?  I  have 
seen  it  in  his  eyes!  I've  hurt  him,  brought  him 
to  ruin — taken  his  money,  his  care,  his  love — 
and  given  him — what?  No!  no!  no!  I  would 
feel  so  mean,  so  selfish  and  sordid — taking  all, 
all — happiness,  property — money,  his  sacrifice, 
and — you!  I  won't!  I  couldn't  be  so  cowardly 
and  mean!  I  love  you  enough  to  give  you  up! 
And  if  you  don't  go  and  send  him  here  I  shall 
hate  you  through  and  through!" 

She  had  spoken  swiftly,  hotly,  with  a  passion 
he  had  never  expected  to  find  in  her  nature. 
She  had  clutched  his  wrist,  as  if  to  satisfy,  to 
some  extent,  the  hunger  of  her  arms  to  hold  him 
fast,  but  she  gently  pushed  him  from  her,  at  the 
end. 

"I  don't  see — how — I  can,"  Allan  faltered,  in 
reply.  "I  love  you  so.  You  don't  understand 
how  much  I  love  you,  Sylvia." 

211 


DUNNY 

"Understand?"  she  said,  with  a  smile  it  hurt 
him  to  see.  "As  if  my  heart  doesn't  understand 
it  all.  But  I  should  so  despise  myself— and  you 
— if  we  couldn't  be  as  brave  and  generous  as 
Jerry.  Prove  that  you  love  me,  Allan — prove 
it!  Don't  let  him  be  the  only  noble  man — don't 
do  that.  Go,  and  let  me  love  you  the  better  for 
your  courage!" 

"  I've  got  to  go.  I  knew  all  along  I'd  have  to 
go,"  he  said,  as  he  took  her  hand  again  in  his. 
"Only — I  had  to  wait — just  a  minute.  I  love 
you,  Sylvia.  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  she  answered,  faintly,  her  color 
swiftly  departing.  ' '  I  knew  you  would.  I  knew 
it.  Good-bye." 

He  looked  upon  her  in  his  yearning,  and  her 
gaze  met  his  without  a  falter.  Love,  heroic, 
enduring,  and  beautiful,  was  shining  in  her  eyes. 

As  if  across  a  wide  abyss  their  glances  met,  in  a 
sweet,  long  look  of  sadness.  She  hungered  to  be 
taken  to  his  arms,  for  she  was  weak  already,  now 
that  her  arguments  had  won  him  and  lost  him 
together.  He  was  aching  just  to  clasp  her  once 
to  his  heart  and  kiss  her  on  the  lips.  But  he 
knew  he  had  no  rights  of  love,  and  so  he  dropped 
her  listless  hands  and  went  away. 

She  watched  him  pass  through  the  gate  and 
down  the  road.  At  length  at  a  corner  he  turned 
212 


ALLAN   BRAVES  AN   ORDEAL 

and  waved  his  hand.  She  answered  with  a 
gesture  that  was  simple  enough  except  in  the 
pang  it  cost  her  heart.  Then  weakly  she  knelt 
upon  the  earth,  above  her  flowers,  clasping  her 
hands  upon  her  breast  in  poignant  loneliness. 


XXIV 
JERRY'S   HOUR  ARRIVES 

ERRY  KIRK  and  his  partner,  that 
Sunday  morning,  had  been  having  a 
bitter  engagement  of  words,  in  the 
interchange  of  which  Asa  Craig  had 
revealed  the  full  extent  of  his  power. 
The  man's  amazing  cleverness  and 
ingenuity  had  proved  to  be  second  only  to  his 
jealousy  and  frankly  avowed  intention  to  thrust 
Jerry  out  of  the  business. 

A  new  sort  of  Jerry,  somewhat  stunned,  but 
wholly  calm  and  self-reliant,  greeted  Allan  Ken 
nedy,  when  at  last  the  younger  man  appeared 
again  at  Millsite  and  delivered  Sylvia's  message. 
"Miss  Weaver  wishes  to  see  you  at  once,'' 
was  all  that  Allan  said. 

Already  beset  by  accumulated  troubles,  Jerry 
believed  that  more  were  now  about  to  be  added 
to  his  burden.  The  flash  in  Allan's  eyes,  as  he 
thus  fulfilled  what  he  felt  to  be  a  final  service  to 
Sylvia,  was  interpreted  by  Jerry  as  a  sign  of 
214 


JERRY'S   HOUR  ARRIVES 

the  younger  man's  triumph  in  love.  He  was 
certain  that  Sylvia  wished  to  see  him  only  for 
the  purpose  of  asking  to  be  released  from  her 
promise  to  become  his  wife. 

He  merely  said,  "All  right." 

But  the  ride  to  Tamarack  was  a  long,  hot 
ride,  and  conflicts  raged  in  the  breast  of  the 
mountaineer,  leaving  his  heart  in  soreness  that 
he  felt  could  have  no  healing.  Yet,  when  he 
came  at  length  to  the  Hanks'  abode  and  beheld 
little  Dunny,  back  by  the  shed,  petting  and 
fondling  his  blinded  burro,  a  change  came  upon 
the  man  and  brought  him  something  that  was 
almost  happiness. 

His  horse  he  had  left  at  the  stable.  Standing 
there  in  the  road,  to  watch  little  Dunny  for  a 
moment,  he  was  unaware  that  Sylvia  was  com 
ing  towards  him,  from  the  porch,  till  she  opened 
the  gate  a  rod  or  so  away. 

"Why  —  how  soon  you  came!"  she  said. 
"Isn't  it  glorious,  a  day  like  this?  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  something,  Jerry.  Shall  we  walk  up 
the  trail  to  the  tree  with  a  seat?" 

He  saw  that  she  was  nervously  excited.  The 
color  was  burning  radiantly  in  her  face;  her 
eyes  were  shining  in  all  the  lustre  of  which  their 
gray  was  possessed.  He  had  never  seen  her 
look  so  beautiful. 


DUNNY 

"All  right,"  he  answered.  "How  are  you?" 
and  he  held  out  his  big,  strong  hand. 

It  seemed  to  do  her  good  to  feel  the  pressure 
of  his  grip  upon  her  fingers.  She  was  steadied. 

"Let's  go  around  the  other  way,"  she  said, 
"and  Dunny  can  stay  with  his  donkey." 

Jerry's  heart  was  beating  with  a  heavy  stroke. 
He  felt  confirmed  in  his  former  belief  that  Sylvia 
wished  to  tell  him  of  her  happiness  with  Allan 
Kennedy. 

They  walked  in  silence  towards  the  pine-tree 
where  they  had  paused  that  day  when  Jerry  had 
come  to  Tamarack  to  talk  of  their  marriage. 
He  wondered  why  she  would  seek  the  place, 
and  vaguely  he  wished  she  would  not.  Yet 
why  should  an  item  so  insignificant  matter  to 
him  now? 

"Jerry,"  she  said,  before  they  came  to  the 
tree,  "I  didn't  know  my  father's  will  could 
make  such  a  difference — to  you.  I  didn't  know 
it  till  to-day." 

"Your  father's  will?"  he  said.  "But  — I 
haven't  said  it  makes  any  difference  to  me." 

' '  I  know  you  haven't.  Of  course  you  haven't, 
she  answered.  "You  never  would.  But  it  does 
— it  does  make  a  very  great  difference  indeed. 
Mr.  Kennedy  told  me  all  about  it  this  morning. 
I  never  knew  till  then." 
216 


JERRY'S   HOUR  ARRIVES 

"Kennedy  ought  not  to  talk  about  company 
business — I  mean  my  affairs — the  will — any 
thing — outside  of  school,"  he  stammered. 

"He  had  to,"  she  said.  "I'm  glad  he  did! 
He  wouldn't  have  been  your  friend — or  mine — 
if  he  hadn't  let  me  know." 

"He  may  not  have  known  what  he  was  talk 
ing  about,"  said  Jerry.  "The  will  is  all  right. 
What  has  Allan  been  telling  you,  anyway?" 

"Everything!"  she  said. 

They  had  come  to  the  tree  at  the  base  of 
which  the  seat  was  provided,  but  they  stood 
beside  it  face  to  face. 

"There  —  wasn't  much  to  tell,"  Jerry  fal 
tered. 

"Yes,  there  was — if  you  are  being  ruined!" 
she  answered.  "He  likes  you  so  much  he  had 
to  tell.  He'd  have  been  such  a  coward  if  he 
hadn't.  Jerry,  forgive  me  for  all  my  thought 
lessness,  but  I  didn't  know — I  couldn't  know — of 
all  this  going  on.  But — you  can  handle  all  the 
property.  You  can  beat  Mr.  Craig  —  and  be 
trustee  and  guardian — and  everything!" 

She  was  blushing  hotly.  To  her  it  was  almost 
as  if  she  herself  were  proposing  marriage  to 
Jerry,  but  her  sense  of  right  and  loyalty  and 
gratitude  bore  her  out  in  it  bravely. 

Jerry  looked  at  her,  puzzled.     He  failed  to 

is  217 


DUNNY 

grasp  her  meaning,  so  many  and  so  poignant 
had  been  his  feelings  recently. 

"But — but  Craig  is  guardian — trustee,"  he 
stammered. 

"Yes — of  course — I  know,"  she  said,  coura 
geously.  "But  the  will  says  if  I  should  marry 
a  man  over  thirty-five  years  of  age  —  and  you 
— I  wrote  you  I  would.  I  wrote  it,  Jerry — and 
I  meant  it — only — only —  Don't  you  see  what 
I  mean?" 

"Sylvia — let's  sit  down,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
grown  suddenly  thick. 

He  took  a  place  on  the  seat  and  stared  at  the 
ground.  His  face  was  red,  but  it  paled  pecul 
iarly. 

"Let's  sit  down,"  he  repeated,  as  he  strove  to 
collect  his  thoughts. 

A  great  wave  of  joyance  had  surged  so  swiftly 
through  his  being  that  it  made  him  weak. 

"Sylvia — tell  me,"  he  said,  speaking  with  ob 
vious  emotion,  "did  Kennedy  know  why  you 
sent  for  me  to-day?" 

She  colored  instantly. 

"Yes,"  she  confessed,  "he  did." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  said: 

"No  wonder  you  like  him,  Sylvia." 

"But  the  will,"  she  insisted.  "We  came  here 
to  talk  of  the  will." 

218 


JERRY'S  HOUR  ARRIVES 

"And  you  could  do  it — marry  me?"  he  said, 
looking  fairly  in  her  eyes. 

She  returned  his  gaze  unflinchingly. 

"Oh,  Jerry,"  she  said,  "I  ought  to  have  done 
it  before,  but  I  couldn't  help — I  want  to,  now, 
I  mean.  You've  been  so  good  to  us.  You've 
done  so  much!  I've  been  selfish  and  thought 
less  and — everything  else.  But  I  couldn't  let 
you  be  ruined.  I  won't!  I  won't!" 

Jerry  was  gazing  on  the  ground  again.  His 
two  big  hands  were  tightly  clasped  together.  A 
wonderful  happiness  possessed  him,  touching  his 
nature  with  sublimity.  His  hour  had  come. 

"I  knew  it,  Sylvia — I  knew  you  were  always 
just  this  kind,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  knew  it — 
even  when  I  felt  the  worst." 

She  was  very  pale.  The  implied  confession 
hurt  her  conscience  deeply. 

"I  am  sorry  if  I've  made  you  feel  unhappy," 
she  said.  "Forgive  me,  Jerry — please." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,"  he  begged.  "I  didn't 
want  you  to  say  a  thing  like  that.  I  knew  at 
last — I  mean  I  sort  of  felt  I  didn't  have  the 
right,  dear  child,  to  ask  you  to — go  ahead  with 
the  notion  of  marrying  me." 

"But  you  did  have  the  right,"  she  answered, 
warmly.  "Of  course  you  had  the  right!  And 
any  day  you  say — " 

219 


DUNNY 

He  raised  his  hand  in  a  kindly  gesture  of 
interruption. 

"If  Allan  hadn't  shown  himself  a  man — it 
might  have  been  another  story,"  he  said.  "God 
bless  you,  Sylvia,  you've  made  me  feel  like  a 
boy  again — happy  as  yonder  singing  lark — but 
I'll  have  to  be  a  sort  of  father,  I  reckon,  to  you 
and  Allan  and  Dunny." 

"Oh  no,  no,  no!"  she  said.  "You  can't 
throw  away  your  property  like  that.  I  came 
all  the  way  from  the  East  to — to  be  Mrs.  Kirk. 
I  could't  let  all  your  life-work  go.  I  couldn't 
be  happy  anywhere  in  the  world." 

He  took  her  hand  for  a  moment,  and,  laying 
it  in  his  palm,  placed  his  other  hand  above  it 
fondly. 

"Sylvia,  don't  be  thinking  of  any  mere  prop 
erty,  or  business,  against  the  things  in  your 
heart,"  he  said.  "Don't  make  that  mistake. 
I  couldn't  let  you  do  it.  I've  been  getting  to 
like  Allan  better  and  better,  in  spite  of  myself. 
I  like  him  mighty  well — to-day.  It's  got  to  be 
you  two.  It  couldn't  be  helped.  It  had  to 
be." 

"Please  don't  say  it  —  please,"  she  said. 
"Think  how  I  should  always  feel!  Give  me  a 
chance  to  do  a  little  something,  Jerry,  please." 

He  put  down  her  hand  and  leaned  against  the 
220 


JERRY'S   HOUR  ARRIVES 

tree,  gazing  off  at  the  mountains  beyond — the 
mountains  that  to  him  were  parents,  counsellors, 
all.  Sylvia  looked  at  him,  conscious  of  the 
struggle  of  emotions  going  on  in  his  being. 
Never  had  he  seemed  so  splendidly  strong,  so 
vigorous,  so  handsome  in  his  way  of  rugged 
beauty. 

"No,"  he  said,  slowly,  "it  wouldn't  be  fair  to 
you  in  the  years  to  come.  The  day  would 
arrive  when  you  would  reach  your  very  prime, 
and  I  should  be  old  and  tired.  It  isn't  so  much 
for  just  the  present;  we  could  sort  of  pretend 
there  wasn't  so  very  much  odds,  but,  you  see, 
folks  should  marry  for  to-day  and  to-morrow  and 
twenty  years  and  fifty  years  from  now,  and  you 
and  I,  in  twenty  years  from  this — it  couldn't  be 
fair.  I'm  happy — that's  enough.  I  never  knew 
I  was  coming  in  for  such  a  happy  time  as  this 
in  all  my  life." 

"But  I  came  here  for  this,"  she  insisted, 
earnestly.  "And  if  Mr.  Craig — " 

"Don't  worry,  Sylvia — don't  worry,"  he  in 
terrupted.  "He  can't  scare  me  out  of  the 
country.  I'll  get  on  my  feet  all  right.  I  did 
it  once — I  can  do  it  again.  And  work  is  what 
I  like." 

He  did  not  deny  that  Craig  could  and  would 
accomplish  his  ruin.  She  noted  this.  She  could 

221 


DUNNY 

fancy  him  starting  afresh,  with  his  naked  hands, 
toiling  to  build  up  the  structure  of  a  business 
once  again  in  his  patient,  steadfast  way.  It 
hurt  her  to  think  of  such  a  labor,  after  all  he 
had  done  with  his  life. 

"I  mustn't  let  you  do  it!"  she  said.  "I 
couldn't  accept  the  sacrifice.  Jerry,  don't  try  it, 
please.  Let  me  help  you  now  and  do  my  part." 

"But  what  about  my  standing  by  and  seeing 
a  sacrifice?"  he  asked.  "What  is  a  handful  of 
property  compared  to  a  handful  of  heart  ?  You 
and  Allan — " 

"Please  don't  speak  of  me — and  Allan,"  she 
implored.  "I  can't  endure  to  think  of  it  now." 

"But  don't  you  like  him,  Sylvia?" 

"We  can't  have  everything  we  like,"  she  an 
swered,  crimsoning,  yet  meeting  his  gaze  cour 
ageously.  "I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  think  of 
Allan  any  more." 

He  smiled  reassuringly.  "Can't  help  it,"  he 
said.  "But,  by -the -way,  speaking  of  having 
what  we  want  reminds  me  that  Craig  wants 
little  Dunny  sent  to  Millsite  right  away.  He 
says  he  wishes  to  see  him." 

Sylvia  turned  pale.  Asa  Craig  to  her  was  a 
monster  whose  every  intention  was  sinister. 

"Is  he  doing  this  to  irritate  you  further?" 
she  asked. 

222 


JERRY'S  HOUR  ARRIVES 

Jerry  smiled  grimly.  "It  sounded  a  little 
that  way,"  he  admitted. 

"Then  Dunny  cannot  go.  I  won't  let  him 
go!" 

Sylvia  rose  to  her  feet  in  sudden  anger. 

"He's  got  the  right,"  said  Jerry.  "I  thought 
I'd  take  the  little  feller  up  there  in  the  morning, 
for  I'll  have  to  go  off  on  a  three  days'  trip 
pretty  soon." 

"Oh,  Jerry — why  don't  you  make  yourself 
Dunny's  guardian?"  she  cried.  "Why  don't 
you  beat  Mr.  Craig?" 

"Why?"  repeated  Jerry,  smiling  peculiarly. 
"Why?  I  guess  because  I'm  most  too  fond  of 
you  to  do  it." 

He  too  was  standing.  He  took  her  face  be 
tween  his  hands  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"Come  on,"  he  said.  "We'll  go  back  down 
to  the  house  and  you  can  write  for  Allan  to 
come  and  see  you  soon." 

"I  can't!"  she  answered.  "I  can't.  I  don't 
consent  to  that  arrangement.  I  want  you  to 
change  your  mind." 

"I  knew  what  kind  of  a  girl  you'd  prove  to 
be,"  he  answered.  "Bless  your  heart,  I'm  glad." 

And  so  the  two  went  home,  but  she  would  not, 
and  did  not,  accept  his  self-denial. 


XXV 
DUNNY   MEETS   MR.   CRAIG 


T  was  not   without  misgivings  that 
Sylvia  kissed  little  Dunny  good  -  bye 
on  the  following  morning,  and  placed 
him  in  Jerry's  charge  on  the  seat  of 
the  buckboard  in  which  they  would 
drive  to  the  summit. 
"You  must  be  real  nice  to  Mr.  Craig,"  she 
said.     "He  must  be  a  good,  kind  man  or  papa 
would  never  have  liked  him  so  much." 

"I'll  tell  him  about  my  donkey,"  answered 
the  little  fellow,  earnestly,  "and  tell  him  he  can 
have  a  ride." 

He  was  very  much  excited  by  the  enterprise, 
for  Jerry  had  told  him  wonderful  tales  of  all 
the  things  to  be  seen  at  Millsite  camp. 

"I'll  come  home  pretty  soon,"  he  called  to 
Sylvia,  when  at  last  the  buckboard  started. 
"Good-bye." 

She  stood  there  to  see  them  go,  the  big,  fond- 
hearted  man,  with  all  his  cares,  and  the  quaint 
224 


DUNNY  MEETS  MR.  CRAIG 

little  chap,  with  all  his  joys,  sitting  together  on 
the  seat. 

The  ride  was  a  wonderful  experience  to 
Dunny,  for  the  road  nearly  paralleled  the 
flume,  and  the  path  it  took  was  fraught  with 
engineering  marvels.  The  flume  was  a  wooden 
"ditch,"  as  Dunny  described  it,  half  filled  with 
swiftly  running  water.  It  was  really  a  V- 
shaped  trough,  over  fifteen  miles  in  length, 
winding  around  the  massive  base  of  the  moun 
tain  range  and  up  through  a  canon  of  tremen 
dous  proportions  to  the  heights  above.  At 
times  it  lay  on  the  level  of  the  earth,  support 
ed  in  its  brackets;  again  it  dived  through  a 
tunnel.  Across  a  number  of  chasms  and  ra 
vines  it  spanned  the  distance  like  a  slender 
bridge,  on  its  stiltlike  trestles,  frequently'  as 
much  as  a  hundred  feet  in  the  air. 

Now  and  again  the  road  lay  fairly  beside  the 
flume;  here  and  there  the  wooden  trough  lay 
beneath  a  bridge  that  the  buckboard  passed,  so 
that  Dunny  had  many  opportunities  to  see  it 
close  at  hand.  He  saw  that  it  was  as  wide 
across  as  he  was  long,  while  its  depth  was  about 
two  feet.  Along  its  length,  at  distances  varying 
from  a  mile  to  three  miles  or  more,  were  sta 
tioned  little  cabins,  and  in  each  of  these  a  man 
was  living.  All  these  men  were  "lookouts," 
225 


DUNNY 

paid  to  remain  at  points  where  troubles  oc 
curred,  from  time  to  time,  and  to  do  their  ut 
most  to  prevent  catastrophes  to  the  structure. 

In  reply  to  Dunny's  questions,  Jerry  ex 
plained  that  the  floating  wood  that  came  so 
swiftly  down,  and  sometimes  the  lumber  as 
well,  would  "jamb"  in  the  flume  and  halt.  At 
such  a  moment  the  "lookout"  must  hasten  to 
the  spot  and  work  like  a  giant,  with  his  hook, 
or  "picaroon,"  taking  out  the  wood  as  rapidly 
as  possible,  to  prevent  very  serious  complica 
tions.  At  times  these  "jambs"  had  wrecked 
whole  sections  of  the  flume,  the  four-foot  logs 
of  fuel-wood  leaping  and  ramming  like  panic- 
stricken  animals,  and  piling  up  in  chaos  and 
damming  the  water  till  it  rose  above  the  sides 
of  the  structure  and  began  to  sluice  away  the 
sand  and  rocks  beneath,  till  a  hundred  yards  or 
more  of  the  slender  trough,  with  supports  and 
all,  would  buckle,  collapse,  and  fall  to  pieces 
like  a  thing  made  of  straws. 

Already,  this  morning,  the  lumber  was  com 
ing  down  that  wooden  ditch,  in  planks  nearly 
twenty  feet  in  length,  that  lay  together  in 
"drives,"  like  narrow  rafts,  held  together  by 
the  weight  of  the  timbers  themselves.  These 
drives  were  scudding  downward  with  amazing 
rapidity,  tossing  up  a  spray  of  water  from  their 
226 


DUNNY   MEETS  MR.  CRAIG 

noses,  and  trailing  foam  behind  them  as  they 
went.  The  darkish  water  was  redolent  of  pine 
as  it  seethed  and  slipped  along  in  the  trough; 
and  the  wonder  of  it  never  ceased  for  little 
Dunny  Weaver. 

All  the  mountain  world  about  was  gloriously 
huge  and  warm  and  inviting.  Far  up  on  the 
slopes  were  splendid  forest  trees.  Here  in  the 
bed  of  the  canon  were  alders,  willows,  and 
aspens  sweet  as  hay.  Prodigious  turrets  and 
walls  and  battlements  of  rock  stood  on  either 
side,  at  one  of  the  passes,  and  everywhere  on 
the  acclivities  the  dark-green  manzanita  flour 
ished. 

Here  and  there  the  canon's  floor  was  flatten 
ed  out  to  form  a  little  meadow.  Through  it 
all,  in  its  endless  way,  the  flume  continued,  like 
a  wooden  serpent  of  incredible  length. 

At  last  they  came  to  the  one  superb  and 
amazing  plunge  that  the  water  way  took  in  its 
course.  Here  the  flume  came  down  a  hill  that 
a  horse  could  scarcely  climb  in  an  hour.  It 
was  built  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  its  water 
gleamed  from  afar  like  a  polished  lance  of  steel, 
for  it  raced  so  swiftly  as  to  foam  to  snowy 
whiteness. 

Up  this  hill  the  road  was  made,  zigzagged 
back  and  forth,  so  steep  was  the  climb.  Three 
227 


DUNNY 

times  it  crossed  the  flume,  on  bridges,  and  then 
wound  tortuously  hither  and  yon,  along  its  way 
to  the  summit. 

Down  at  the  foot  of  this  hill  big  Jerry  halted 
his  horses  for  a  moment  of  rest  before  they 
should  face  the  ascent.  And  Dunny,  seeing 
the  drives  of  lumber  shooting  down  that  fear 
ful  track,  held  to  his  fond  protector  in  alarm. 
What  if  the  planks  should  leap  from  the  flume 
and  hurtle,  spearlike,  at  a  fellow's  head?  He 
was  awed  and  fascinated. 

Flinging  its  spray  six  feet  to  right  and  left, 
a  raft  of  planks  came  down  the  watery  chute 
as  if  from  a  cannon.  The  speed  of  the  thing 
increased  at  every  second.  It  shot  ahead  of 
the  water  itself.  Mere  water  was  incapable  of 
dropping  down  so  swiftly  as  the  raft  could 
move.  Therefore,  when  it  presently  arrived  at 
the  bottom,  where  the  grade  was  easier  again, 
the  "drive"  slowed  its  awful  flight  and  slowed 
and  slowed  till  it  actually  stopped  for  sheer 
lack  of  water  to  tide  it  along.  Then  the  foam 
ing  liquid  glided  down  upon  it,  took  it  up  in 
the  force  of  the  current,  and  swept  it  onward  as 
before. 

This  was  the  hill  that  one  of  Sylvia's  ad 
mirers,  he  of  the  snow-white  hair,  had  de 
scribed  that  night  that  Dunny  remembered  so 
228 


DUNNY   MEETS  MR.  CRAIG 

vividly.  This  was  the  thing  down  which  that 
man  had  ridden  when  his  hair  turned  gray  with 
fear. 

Dunny  nestled  closer  to  Jerry's  side  as  the 
sweating  horses  started  up  the  hill.  He  clung 
on  tightly  till  the  climb  was  finished,  and  then 
at  last  they  came  to  Millsite,  on  the  mountain's 
top,  and  he  found  himself  too  thoroughly  en 
grossed  and  excited  to  think. 

The  camp  was  not  particularly  large.  It  con 
sisted  of  a  score  or  so  of  cabins;  a  lofty  trestle 
on  which  the  locomotives  hauled  the  cars  to  be 
unloaded;  a  flag-pole  with  a  semaphore  on  top, 
to  be  used  as  a  signal  to  the  "lookouts"  below 
in  cases  of  emergency;  the  saw -mill,  shrilly 
screaming  at  its  toil;  and  heaps  of  wood  and 
lumber,  piled  on  a  slanting  platform,  ribbed 
with  skids,  at  the  base  of  which  was  the  flume. 
A  score  or  more  of  men  were  swarming  here, 
moving  lumber  down  the  skids  and  dropping  it 
into  the  flume,  in  raftlike  "drives,"  so  soon  to 
shoot  that  fearful  acclivity. 

All  this,  in  his  childish  way,  little  Dunny  saw 
in  wonderment  and  swiftly  increasing  interest. 
He  had  never  seen  anything  like  it,  or  a  place 
that  promised  so  much  pure  delight  or  so  many 
marvellous  localities  for  a  busy  little  man  to 
explore.  But  Jerry,  nodding  to  the  men  they 
229 


DUNNY 

passed,  drove  on  to  the  office,  where  Asa  Craig 
held  the  reins  and  wires  of  government  by 
which  the  lumber  enterprise  was  conducted 
and  controlled.  And  the  reach  of  those  wires 
extended  far  into  virgin  forest  and  far  across 
the  ranges  of  mountains,  where  other  men  were 
sweating  and  toiling,  with  axes,  saws,  and 
teams  of  oxen  that  they  goaded  to  frantic  en 
deavor. 

"Good -morning,  Craig,"  said  Jerry,  as  he 
and  Dunny  entered  the  insignificant-appearing 
place.  "I've  brought  your  ward.  This  is  little 
Dunny  Weaver.  Dunny,  this  is  Mr.  Craig." 

Dunny  went  up  to  the  iron  -  hearted  man 
without  the  slightest  hesitation,  and  screwed 
his  tiny  fist  inside  his  guardian's  hand  before 
its  owner  was  aware  of  what  was  happening. 

"I'm  awful  glad  I  came,"  said  the  little  fel 
low,  eagerly.  "I'll  let  you  ride  on  my  donkey 
if  you'll  let  me  ride  on  the  cars." 

"'Dunny'?"  said  Mr.  Craig,  with  an  ominous 
scowl  on  his  overhanging  brow.  "What  sort  of 
a  name  is  'Dunny'?" 

"It's  the  kind  that's  easiest  to  say,"  replied 
his  small  and  unembarrassed  visitor.  "You 
can  call  me  'Dun'  if  you  want  to.  Tid  says 
'Weaver.'" 

"What's  your  real  name?"  demanded  the 
230 


DUNNY   MEETS   MR.  CRAIG 

hawk-nosed  man,  in  his  brusque,  uncompromis 
ing  manner. 

"When  I  go  to  Sunday-school  it's  Donald," 
said  Dunny.  "What  did  they  call  you  at  Sun 
day-school?" 

"Donald,"  repeated  the  man.  "All  right, 
Donald,  how  do  you  like  the  place?"  he  in 
quired,  somewhat  severely.  "How  do  you  like 
your  guardian — me?" 

"One  thousand  thousand  dollars,"  answered 
Dunny,  in  childish  candor,  placing  his  estimate 
very  high  indeed.  "Me  and  my  father  like 
nice  people  all  to  pieces."  He  had  suddenly 
remembered  that  Sylvia  had  told  him  his  father 
must  have  liked  Mr.  Craig  very  much  indeed, 
hence  his  observation. 

"Well— sit  down,  Donald — that  chair  over 
there,"  said  the  man,  pointing  to  a  bit  of  office 
furniture  six  or  seven  sizes  too  large  for  his 
guest.  "We'll  get  acquainted  in  a  minute." 
He  turned  to  Jerry.  "Anything  to  talk  about 
this  morning,  Kirk?" 

"Not  just  this  minute,"  answered  Jerry. 
"I've  got  to  look  for  Croson.  Be  back  a  little 
later."  He  cast  a  glance  at  Dunny,  sitting  al 
ready  in  the  office  chair,  and  went  his  way. 

Mr.  Craig  sat  down  at  his  desk,  and  taking 
up  his  pen,  began  to  drive  it  as  he  drove  his 
231 


DUNNY 

men.  Dimny  sat  there  contentedly,  studying 
everything  in  sight,  from  the  maps  on  the  wall 
to  knots  on  the  floor,  while  waiting  in  patience 
for  the  further  process  of  getting  acquainted  to 
commence. 

From  time  to  time  Mr.  Craig  cast  a  furtive 
glance  in  the  little  chap's  direction.  He  began 
to  wonder  what  he  should  do  with  a  child  so 
small  now  that  he  had  him  at  the  place.  Per 
haps  his  plan  of  piquing  Jerry  Kirk  was  about 
to  prove  a  species  of  boomerang.  He  finally 
concluded,  in  a  vague,  uneasy  way,  that  the 
child  would  probably  be  diverted  to  some  ex 
tent  by  a  look  around  the  camp.  He  would 
presently  put  him  through  this  process,  and 
then  could  have  him  returned  to  Tamarack 
somewhat  promptly.  But  inasmuch  as  he 
could  not  seem  to  work,  with  Dunny  sitting 
there  so  quietly,  the  man  grew  restive  and  al 
most  immediately  put  on  his  hat. 

"Donald,"  he  said,  in  his  way  of  harshness, 
"we'll  go  out  and  see  the  place." 

"All  right,"  said  Dunny.  "I'd  like  to  see 
the  thing  that  makes  a  noise." 

He  came  to  his  guardian's  side  and  possessed 

himself  of  two  of  the  man's  bony   fingers,   to 

which  he  held  stoutly  in  confidence  and  trust. 

Craig  looked  down  in  the  sweet  little  face  up- 

232 


DUNNY  MEETS  MR.  CRAIG 

raised  to  his  own.  A  flush  came  into  his 
cheeks  at  the  thought  of  permitting  the  men  to 
behold  him  hand  in  hand  with  the  little  boy. 
But  he  shut  his  jaws  and  determined  to  put  it 
through. 

Out  into  all  the  glory  of  the  sunlight  they 
went,  and  the  scent  of  new-sawn  lumber  came 
on  the  breeze  to  give  them  royal  greeting. 

"The  thing  that  makes  a  noise?"  repeated 
Mr.  Craig.  "Saw-mill,  Donald;  come  on." 

16 


XXVI 
WHEN   A   HEART   BEGINS   TO   SOFTEN 


HERE  being  sixty  healthy  men  and 
seven  healthy  dogs  in  Millsite  camp, 
little  Dunny  Weaver  had  sixty-seven 
friends  at  the  end  of  three  days  of 
residence  here  upon  the  summit.  Asa 
Craig  himself  had  a  friend  or  two 
more  than  formerly  among  the  men,  and  this 
gave  him  possibly  four  in  all  the  place. 

He  had  not  sent  Dunny  home.  Indeed,  he 
had  entertained  no  such  thought  since  that 
first  peculiar  morning  of  the  little  chap's  ar 
rival.  The  man  was  amazed  at  the  way  in 
which  he  was  going  about  all  day  with  his 
small  companion.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  how 
ever,  there  was  no  such  thing  as  going  about 
alone,  for  Dunny  could  apparently  detect  his 
intentions  from  afar,  and,  darting  to  his  side  at 
any  moment  of  the  day,  would  get  him  by  the 
fingers  and  trudge  at  his  side  in  the  greatest 
delight. 

234 


WHEN  A  HEART  BEGINS  TO  SOFTEN 

He  liked  his  guardian  just  exactly  as  he 
might  have  liked  a  bear  or  an  eagle  captured 
from  the  hills  and  safely  caged.  As  any  little 
fellow  is  pleased  to  hear  the  growling  of  a  big, 
harmless  pet,  so  he  liked  the  grumbling,  cross- 
sounding  manner  of  Mr.  Craig,  who  never,  as 
far  as  he  could  see,  was  guilty  of  biting  or 
scratching.  Moreover,  Mr.  Craig  knew  every 
thing  and  every  one  about  the  camp.  He  call 
ed  the  workers  "Jack"  and  "Bob"  and  "Tod," 
and  other  familiar  names,  so  that  any  small 
and  optimistic  boy  would  presently  know  them 
for  himself.  Mr.  Craig  was  likewise  "boss," 
and  where  is  the  normal  little  chap  who  doesn't 
like  to  know  the  boss  so  well  he  can  lead  him 
around  by  the  fingers  and  put  him  through  his 
tricks  ? 

Never  had  Dunny  found  a  settlement  afford 
ing  such  a  gorgeous  field  for  explorations  in  his 
life.  It  was  one  grand  excitement  all  day  long 
to  live  in  such  a  place.  He  chatted  from 
morning  till  night  with  Asa  Craig,  asking  quaint 
boy  questions  and  making  even  more  quaint 
observations  in  a  way  that  was  all  his  own  and 
forever  irresistible. 

A  spark  of  feeling  awoke  in  Craig's  bony 
fingers.  If  he  started  off  by  himself  his  hand 
felt  peculiarly  as  if  he  had  left  off  a  glove.  But 
235 


DUNNY 

his  heart  was  apparently  as  cased  in  steel  as 
ever,  while  his  face  became,  if  possible,  more 
scowling  and  forbidding  than  before. 

The  scene  of  never-ending  fascination  for 
Dunny  was  the  one  presented  by  the  men  at 
work  on  the  great  plank  "apron"  of  the  flume, 
where  they  tossed  the  wood  or  lumber  into  the 
powerful  stream  of  water,  to  be  floated  down 
to  Tamarack  below.  Here  there  was  always 
sunshine,  activity,  smell  of  pine,  and  the  turgid, 
magnetic  water  itself.  A  dog  or  two  of  the 
camp  was  ordinarily  about,  helping  to  start  off 
the  cargoes  of  wood  by  lusty  barking,  while 
now  and  again  a  chipmunk  or  a  squirrel  ap 
peared  and  frisked  his  tail  and  invited  a  race 
in  his  saucy  way. 

To  lead  Mr.  Craig  to  the  platform  and  stand 
there  clutching  his  fingers  while  watching  the 
labor  of  loading  the  flume  was  the  little  fel 
low's  greatest  joy.  The  flag  -  pole  topped  by 
the  semaphore  was  here,  and  at  its  base  stood 
a  small,  loaded  cannon,  to  be  fired  whensoever 
need  should  require  that  attention  be  directed 
to  the  signalling  apparatus  proper.  The  hope 
in  the  breast  of  Dunny  Weaver  was  that  some 
thing  might  happen  to  necessitate  the  use  of 
cannon  and  signals  while  he  was  watching,  but 
he  waited  in  vain  expectation. 
236 


WHEN  A  HEART  BEGINS  TO  SOFTEN 

Jerry  Kirk  had  gone  twenty  miles  or  more 
away  in  the  mountains  on  a  mission  to  raise 
the  necessary  funds  to  oppose  his  partner's  ag 
gressions.  Daily  Asa  Craig  was  closing  in  upon 
the  business,  bending  his  every  resource  to  the 
purpose  of  crowding  Jerry  out. 

Kirk  was  battling  for  his  very  existence  in 
the  company.  The  fight  he  was  making  aroused 
a  certain  sort  of  admiration  in  the  mind  of  Asa 
Craig,  and  lent  a  deeper  grimness  to  his  smile 
as  he  planned  to  overwhelm  him  at  the  end. 

Jerry  had  gone  away  without  suggesting 
Dunny's  return  to  the  home  in  Tamarack, 
aware  that  Craig  would  have  balked  the  plan 
at  once.  A  letter  had  therefore  been  forwarded 
to  Sylvia,  explaining  that  Dunny  would  re 
main  at  Millsite  for  at  least  a  week,  and  that 
meantime  all  was  going  well. 

Neither  Jerry  nor  Dunny  had  seen  Allan 
Kennedy,  owing  to  the  fact  that  he  was  off  in 
the  forest  superintending  the  work  of  securing 
water  for  the  flume  from  the  Weaver  posses 
sions  now  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Craig.  But  he 
came  the  morning  after  Jerry  went  away,  and 
he  came  in  a  way  that  thrilled  little  Weaver  to 
the  marrow  of  his  bones,  for  he  rode  down  the 
flume  on  a  log,  standing  straight  upright,  like  a 
figure  of  dominating  power. 
237 


DUNNY 

This  was  a  method  of  travelling  frequently 
employed  by  the  men  on  the  flume,  either 
above  or  below  that  dreaded  hill  where  the 
water  made  its  plunge.  It  afforded  a  swift, 
pleasant  means  of  locomotion,  provided  a  man 
had  steady  nerves  and  the  ready  ability  to 
jump  should  occasion  arise. 

When  Allan  arrived  at  Millsite  and  lightly 
leaped  out  of  the  flume  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
apron,  Dunny  and  Asa  Craig  were  standing 
there  by  the  skids  in  the  morning  sun.  No 
sooner  had  the  little  man  discovered  who  the 
daring  rider  was  than  he  dropped  the  fingers 
to  which  he  had  just  been  clinging,  and  ran 
with  all  his  might  to  meet  his  loved  acquaint 
ance. 

Craig  beheld  the  meeting  of  the  two,  the 
gladness  of  the  clasp  in  which  the  joyous  Allan 
caught  the  little  fellow  up  against  his  breast, 
and  the  sheer  delight  and  admiration  betokened 
by  little  Dunny  himself.  A  sharp  pang  of 
jealousy  darted  into  Craig's  very  inmost  being. 
Never  had  Dunny  so  run  to  his  protection, 
never  had  he  thrown  his  stout  little  arms  about 
his  neck  like  this.  The  man  was  staring  fix 
edly  at  the  picture  presented  by  the  two.  The 
eager  flood  of  questions  that  Dunny  was  ask 
ing  fell  on  his  ears,  but  were  hardly  heard,  for 
238 


WHEN  A  HEART  BEGINS  TO  SOFTEN 

Craig  was  utterly  perplexed.  He  wondered 
what  it  meant  to  have  himself  perturbed  by 
such  an  incident  —  to  have  some  mad,  un 
identified  desire  come  stirring  up  his  nature. 
His  face  was  flushing  at  the  very  thought  of 
ordering  Kennedy  to  put  the  little  fellow  down 
and  return  to  his  work,  where  he  could  not 
again  win  the  small  boy's  hand  from  the  two 
bony  fingers  feeling  so  oddly  naked  and  de 
serted. 

Shutting  his  jaws  together  rigidly,  the  man 
denied  the  presence  of  emotion  in  his  heart. 
He  advanced  to  meet  Kennedy  calmly,  brusque 
ly,  demanding  his  mission  here  at  the  summit 
and  how  the  work  was  progressing  out  beyond. 

Dunny,  having  found  a  hero  who  dared  to 
ride  in  the  flume,  as  well  as  a  friend  whose 
qualities  and  traits  were  firmly  established, 
clung  to  Allan's  hand  with  all  his  strength  as 
the  two  men  stood  there  conversing.  He  re 
mained  at  Allan's  side,  looking  up  at  both  his 
friends,  patiently  waiting  for  the  business  talk 
to  cease  and  thus  permit  a  chat  about  that 
wonderful  venture  on  the  log. 

Craig,   despite   his  utmost  endeavors,   could 

not  concentrate  his  mind  upon  the  business  of 

the  water.     It  was  not  precisely  that  Dunny 

intervened;    it    was    more    that    a    species    of 

239 


DUNNY 

hunger  preyed  upon  the  man.  He  had  hardly 
realized  that  a  little  chap  could  leap  to  a  pair 
of  arms  in  utter  abandonment  to  natural  affec 
tion  in  such  a  way  as  he  had  seen,  and  now  it 
seemed  as  if  his  own  starved  nature  demanded 
just  such  a  boon. 

In  his  crabbed  way  he  tried  to  squeeze  the 
longing  from  his  breast,  to  drive  such  a  silly 
sentiment  afield,  but  the  thought  was  there, 
and  it  would  not  go.  Nevertheless,  the  domi 
nant  will  was  present,  and  if  yearning  came  it 
could  be  denied,  even  as  a  beggar  would  be 
told  to  seek  his  needs  in  other  quarters.  In  his 
stubborn  way  the  man  made  up  his  mind  that 
nothing  could  drive  him  now  to  take  little 
Dunny  in  his  arms,  even  should  both  the  in 
vitation  and  the  opportunity  be  afforded. 

In  earnest  of  his  harsh  resolution  he  sent  his 
ward  and  Allan  off  together  for  their  lunch. 
Yet  something  almost  wolfish  in  its  fierceness 
prompted  the  spirit  of  tyranny  in  which  he  or 
dered  Kennedy  to  get  again  to  the  forest  at  his 
labors  so  soon  as  the  noonday  meal  should  be 
concluded.  He  wanted  the  quaint  little  chap 
once  more  to  himself. 

Meantime,  Dunny  had  a  wonderful  hour  in 
Allan's  company.  Perhaps  because  of  the 
scanty  encouragement  received  he  repeated 
240 


WHEN  A  HEART  BEGINS  TO  SOFTEN 

faithfully,  from  time  to  time,  with  worthy  re- 
iterance: 

"Allan,  I  wish  I  could  ride  in  the  flume. 
You  can't  stand  up  on  a  donkey.  I'd  like  to 
ride  on  a  log." 

But  he  did  not  get  the  ride  in  Allan's  com 
pany. 


XXVII 

DUNNY'S    FEARFUL  EXPERIENCE 


LLAN  went,  and  Asa  Craig  was  once 
more  all  important  to  his  little  visi 
tor.  Two  long  days  of  that  summer 
month  went  by,  with  work  neglected 
at  the  office,  while  the  man  control 
ling  all  the  enterprise  was  drawn  into 
courting  the  friendship  of  a  stub  -  tailed  dog 
that  heretofore  had  met  only  scorn  and  epithets 
from  the  source  of  local  government.  The  dog 
was  a  friend  of  Dunny's,  and  occupied  a  canine 
sphere  of  influence  not  to  be  ignored  or  de 
spised.  And  reluctantly  as  Craig  began  his 
overtures,  he  nevertheless  found  himself  en 
joying  certain  sensations  of  pleasure  in  this  new 
experience  in  a  shamefaced,  guilty  way  insep 
arable  from  any  such  manoeuvres. 

Towards  various  men,  whose  rough  and  can 
did  demeanor  had  endeared  them  to  Dunny, 
the    guardian   was    also    softening.     He   found 
there  were  joys  of  labor  in  the  outside  air,  ex- 
242 


DUNNY'S  FEARFUL   EXPERIENCE 

actly  as  he  found  there  were  keen  delights  in 
grinding  less  at  the  office  affairs  and  breathing 
more  of  the  tonic  zephyr  from  the  mountains. 
He  caught  himself  cudgelling  his  memory  for 
words  and  tune  of  a  song  which,  unawares, 
he  began  to  hum  as  he  and  little  Dunny  made 
the  rounds  of  the  camp  together. 

This  morning,  as  they  came  hand  in  hand 
from  the  saw-mill  towards  the  flume,  the  man 
was  unconsciously  droning  at  his  tune  when  he 
presently  heard  his  small  companion  at  his  side 
joining  happily  in  with  the  over  -  repeated 
theme.  Across  the  harsh  old  visage  a  smile  of 
amusement  played  in  a  wistful  way  of  uncer 
tainty  strange  to  see.  His  heart-beat  dared  to 
increase  its  measure,  and  the  hunger  of  his  arms 
came  suddenly  upon  him.  He  looked  alertly 
about  and  saw  they  were  quite  alone. 

"Donald,  what  would  you  like  to  do  this 
morning?"  he  inquired.  "Would  you  kind  of 
like  to  ride  on  my  back?" 

"I'd  rather  ride  in  the  flume,"  answered 
Dunny,  candidly.  "Any  feller  can  ride  on 
somebody's  back." 

"Well,  maybe  that's  so,"  agreed  Craig,  not  a 

little  disappointed.     "But  you'll  have  to  grow 

for  a  few  more  days  before  you  should  ride  in 

the  flume.     It's  dangerous."     Nevertheless,  he 

243 


DUNNY 

secretly  wished  he  had  the  youth  of  Allan 
Kennedy  and  the  strength  and  daring  which 
would  enable  him  to  take  the  small  man  up  in 
his  arms  and  give  him  the  coveted  ride.  His 
thought  must  in  some  way  have  communicated 
itself  to  his  little  companion. 

Dunny  said:  "  Couldn't  you  ride  and  hold  me 
on?  We  could  have  a  bully  time." 

"I  guess — I'm  most  too  old,"  the  man  con 
fessed,  with  a  twinge  in  his  stiffened  form  as  he 
spoke.  "We'll  see  if  we  can't  do  something 
else." 

"Maybe  we  can  catch  a  chipmunk,"  Dunny 
suggested,  readily.  "I'd  like  a  chipmunk  first 
rate.  Tid  says  he  had  one  once  and  kept  him 
in  his  pocket  all  the  time." 

"We'll  see,"  repeated  Craig,  planning  to  have 
some  one  of  the  men  trap  a  squirrel  without 
delay,  but  when  they  had  come  to  the  flume 
where  the  men  were  at  work  he  found  a  sub 
contractor  waiting  there  for  a  consultation. 

Dunny  called  the  stub-tailed  dog  and  ran  to 
the  downward  end  of  the  great  plank  apron, 
where  he  knew  a  number  of  chipmunks  were 
always  to  be  found.  Craig  and  his  man  sat 
down  on  a  heap  of  lumber  for  the  talk. 

Square  -  cut  timbers,  fully  twenty  feet  in 
length  and  twenty  inches  through,  were  being 
244 


DUNNY'S  FEARFUL  EXPERIENCE 

skidded  to  the  flume  and  sent  upon  their  way. 
The  thudding  noise  of  their  falling,  as  the  men 
rolled  them  roughly  down  the  way,  came  in 
cessantly.  One  after  another  they  were  dumped 
into  the  purling  stream  of  water,  splashing  it 
widely  as  they  fell  to  place  and  began  to  forge 
ahead.  In  their  bulk  they  nearly  filled  the 
flume,  riding  in  the  V-shaped  "ditch"  with  a 
corner  for  a  keel  and  therefore  with  the  oppo 
site  or  diagonal  corner  uppermost  as  a  sort  of 
dorsal  fin.  Like  white,  untapered  whales  they 
floated,  starting  at  first  at  a  leisurely  speed 
and  then  swiftly  gathering  momentum,  and 
scudding  away  with  the  force  and  swiftness  of 
a  ram. 

Dunny  had  frightened  a  chipmunk  from  one 
of  the  heaps  of  lumber  to  another.  He  knew 
the  timid  bit  of  fur  and  animation  would  be 
anxious  to  escape  to  safer  lodgings,  hence  he 
ran  about  the  loosely  constructed  pile,  with 
the  dog  in  lively  spirits. 

Craig  was  watching  the  quaint  little  figure 
intently  as  he  listened,  or  pretended  to  listen, 
to  the  talk  of  his  sub-contractor.  He  presently 
saw  the  chipmunk  darting  from  cover  towards 
the  flume.  Calling  for  the  dog,  little  Dunny 
scampered  swiftly  in  pursuit.  In  a  twinkling 
the  tiny  squirrel  disappeared  at  the  edge  of  the 

245 


DUNNY 

apron.  Dunny  raced  the  faster.  Just  at  the 
brink  of  the  flume  he  suddenly  stubbed  his  toe 
and  plunged  head  -  foremost,  arms  extended, 
towards  the  water.  A  monster  timber,  taking 
on  its  speed,  was  moving  by.  The  little  fel 
low  landed  face  downward,  full  length,  upon 
its  top,  and  clutched  it  frantically  with  his 
hands. 

Like  a  madman,  Asa  Craig  leaped  up  and 
screamed  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

"Dunny!  Dunny!  Dunny!"  he  cried,  chas 
ing  insanely  after  the  timber  with  its  helpless 
little  burden  on  its  back. 

A  half  -  dozen  stalwart  laborers  yelled  in 
chorus,  and  ran  as  if  in  abrupt  stampede  to 
overtake  the  log. 

It  shot  away  and  gained  with  fearful  swift 
ness;  it  flung  up  a  spray  from  its  blunt,  half- 
buried  nose  and  swung  about  the  curve,  the 
little  figure  flat  upon  its  ridge. 

Craig  was  nearly  crazy.  He  ran,  he  shriek 
ed,  his  face  as  white  as  chalk.  He  fell  on  the 
apron,  bruising  hands  and  knees,  and  men 
raced  past  him  in  frenzied  might. 

It   was   Craig   who    knew   they   could   never 
catch  up  with  the  timber,  Craig  who  thought 
of  everything  at  once,   Craig  whose  heart  was 
tied  in  a  spasm  of  anguish  and  horror. 
246 


DUNNY'S  FEARFUL    EXPERIENCE 

"Ten  thousand  dollars!  Ten  thousand  dol 
lars,"  he  screamed,  "to  any  man  who'll  save 
my  little  boy!" 

He  wrung  his  hands;  his  face  was  distorted 
with  pain.  He  thought  of  the  semaphore — the 
signal  to  the  men  far  down  in  the  canon. 
True,  every  "lookout"  was  far  below  the  aw 
ful  hill;  true,  they  could  do  no  good  unless  the 
little  man  should  take  that  hideous  plunge  in 
safety,  but  it  was  something. 

He  ran  to  the  pole  and  threw  down  the  lever 
that  hoisted  the  arm. 

"Fire  the  gun!  Fire  the  gun!"  he  bawled, 
and,  madly  throwing  off  his  hat,  he  ran  once 
more  down  the  way  of  the  flume  and  disap 
peared  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

That  Dunny  could  ride  in  safety  down  the 
hill  he  knew  was  out  of  the  question.  A  slip, 
a  little  roll  aside,  and  the  timber  would  grind 
him  to  death  in  an  instant  between  itself  and 
the  planking  of  the  trough;  a  flutter  of  fright, 
or  the  momentary  twitching  of  a  muscle,  no 
longer  in  control  in  the  little  fellow's  dizziness — 
and  the  end  would  be  horrifying!  A  man 
could  hardly  ride  a  timber  such  as  this,  and 
many  a  timber  leaped  the  flume  entirely  when 
half  -  way  down  that  declivity.  But  Craig,  in 
his  madness  of  despair,  ran  on,  and  the  cannon 
247 


DUNNY 

behind  him  boomed  out  its  ominous  signal  to 
the  startled  mountain  world. 

A  single  horseman,  two  hundred  yards  or 
more  on  the  up-hill  side  of  the  terrible  chute  of 
the  flume,  was  riding  in  the  road  towards  Mill- 
site  when  the  cannon  roar  came  clattering  on 
the  air.  It  was  Jerry  Kirk. 

With  an  instinct  of  protection  for  the  flume 
quickly  roused  in  his  being,  he  turned  his  horse 
aside  from  the  road  and  galloped  hotly  to  a 
cut  through  which  the  waterway  was  laid,  dis 
mounting  instantly  and  peering  up  the  length 
of  the  curving  trough. 

Around  the  bend  came  the  timber,  little 
Dunny  holding  on  with  strength  that  was  fast 
departing  in  his  terror.  A  clammy  sweat 
broke  out  on  Jerry's  brow.  He  knew  that 
little  form. 

And  he  knew  he  would  never  dare  attempt 
to  snatch  the  little  fellow  from  his  place  as  the 
timber  passed.  Such  an  error  would  be  cer 
tain  to  be  fatal,  perhaps  to  them  both,  for  the 
log's  momentum  was  tremendous  and  the 
second  of  its  transit  past  himself  would  afford 
no  chance  for  clutching  anything  in  safety. 
He  knew  the  one  and  only  thing  that  the  mo 
ment  demanded. 

Like  a  panther  crouching  to  spring  upon  its 
248 


DUNNY'S  FEARFUL   EXPERIENCE 

prey,  the  mountaineer  leaned  forward  where 
he  stood  beside  the  flume,  his  head  so  turned 
he  could  see  the  oncoming  timber,  now  so 
nearly  in  reach. 

A  second  later  the  huge  white  thing  was 
shooting  past.  He  lurched  abruptly  forward, 
made  a  motion  of  diving,  and  sprawled  full 
length  upon  the  log  behind  little  Weaver's  tiny 
feet. 

The  jolt  of  the  sudden  acquisition  of  speed 
all  but  rendered  him  helpless.  His  leg  was 
slightly  scraped  along  the  planks  of  the  flume 
before  he  could  right  himself  and  find  his 
balance. 

"Dunny — Dunny — don't  be  frightened,"  he 
cried,  above  the  swish  of  air,  and  he  crawled 
slowly  forward  on  the  beam  till  he  had  the  two 
little  legs  in  his  powerful  hands. 

Then  he  knew  they  were  come  to  the  brink 
of  the  awful  hill,  down  which  they  must  shoot 
in  a  moment,  and  the  strength  seemed  swiftly 
to  fade  from  his  thews  and  his  brain  began  to 
reel. 

He  shut  his  eyes  involuntarily  for  a  moment, 
and  caught  a  gasp  of  breath  as  they  swung 
about  the  last  great  curve  to  take  the  fearful 
descent. 

The  timber  was  going  already  like  a  white 
17  249 


DUNNY 

torpedo,  mad  for  destruction.  It  quivered  from 
end  to  end  and  shouldered  from  side  to  side  as 
it  entered  the  seething  froth  of  the  chute. 

Feeling,  hearing,  seeing  —  all  the  senses  save 
a  consciousness  of  dropping  through  a  rush  of 
air — abruptly  ceased.  There  was  something 
akin  to  a  roar  in  the  ears,  although  the  flight 
was  wellnigh  noiseless.  Spray  flew  right  and 
left  and  back  upon  the  stiffened  figures  on  the 
timber.  A  chaos  of  green  and  gray  flung  by, 
as  if  the  hill  itself  were  lifting  upward  in  mete 
oric  devastation. 

Faster,  faster,  faster  dropped  the  log.  A 
horrible  winking  out  of  daylight  occurred — a 
bridge  had  been  left  behind. 

Rigid,  immovable,  paralyzed  by  fear  that  he 
could  not  overcome,  Jerry  Kirk  remained  in 
place  by  sheer  inertia.  But  Dunny  was  sud 
denly  limp  as  a  string.  His  senses  had  gone. 
He  was  slipping,  starting  ever  so  slightly  to  roll 
against  the  edge  of  the  flume  that  was  streak 
ing  by. 

With  strength  galvanic  and  wholly  instinc 
tive,  Jerry  held  the  helpless  little  form  in  place, 
and  then  began  himself  to  feel  a  horrible  black 
ness,  a  sinking  death  of  his  will-force  descend 
ing  upon  him. 

With  a  harsh  and  deafening  increase  of  the 
250 


DUNNY'S  FEARFUL  EXPERIENCE 

roaring,  one,  two — three  more  bridges  were  run, 
each  one  winking  out  the  light  for  the  fraction 
of  a  second,  like  a  photographic  shutter. 

Subconsciously  the  man  was  aware  the 
bridges  were  those  of  the  wagon -road,  and 
therefore  that  the  timber  was  nearing  the  base 
of  the  hill.  He  gathered  the  flickering  strength 
of  desperation  upon  him  by  a  mighty  effort, 
and  down  they  shot,  the  last  remaining  hun 
dred  yards  of  awfulness,  and  the  quivering 
timber,  like  a  creature  that  knows  it  has  finally 
outstripped  the  hounds,  having  distanced  the 
water  in  the  trough,  was  slowing  its  speed. 

Incapable  of  moving,  Jerry  Kirk  remained 
full  length  upon  the  beam,  holding  the  limp, 
unconscious  little  Dunny  in  his  rigid  arms. 

Slowly  and  yet  more  slowly  glided  the  tim 
ber.  It  was  presently  powerless  to  race,  so  far 
had  it  left  the  water  up  the  hill.  It  halted, 
moved  a  yard,  and  came  to  a  stop. 

Trembling  in  every  thew  of  his  big,  strong 
body,  Jerry  rose  to  his  knees  on  the  timber, 
and,  weakly  lifting  little  Dunny,  rolled  himself 
out  of  the  flume  to  the  sand  and  lay  there, 
white  as  milk,  and  closing  his  eyes  as  if  for 
very  life. 

The  water,  foaming  and  gnashing  in  its  rush, 
came  down  and  caught  the  log  again,  and, 


DUNNY 

raising  it  up  in  its  lust  of  power,  swept  it  along 
on  its  way,  down  the  winding  trough  and  past 
the  wondering  "lookouts,"  waiting  to  see  some 
sign  of  calamity,  due  by  now,  since  the  signal- 
gun  had  spoken  on  the  summit. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  big  Jerry  lay  upon 
the  earth  and  clung  to  the  child.  He  was  cold 
as  iron.  He  arose  to  his  knees  at  last,  and, 
weakly  flirting  water  in  the  white  little  face, 
beheld  the  two  dulled  eyes  slowly  open.  They 
closed  again,  however,  almost  at  once.  The 
man  then  bathed  his  own  dizzy  head  and  stood 
on  his  feet,  but  his  legs  were  shaking  in  palsy 
beneath  him  and  his  arms  were  heavy  as  lead. 

At  length  he  took  the  little  man  against  his 
breast  and  started  slowly  up  the  hill  towards 
the  camp. 

A  yell  from  the  trees  above  came  shrilly  on 
the  air,  and  down  through  the  shrubbery  ran 
Asa  Craig,  hatless,  torn  and  wild  of  aspect. 
He  had  seen  Jerry's  horse  above,  and  now  he 
knew  what  had  happened. 

Calling  incoherently,  he  darted  down  the 
trail  to  meet  his  partner. 

"Jerry!     Jerry!     Jerry!"    he    cried,    in    his 
wildness.     "The    little    boy!     My    little    boy! 
My  little  Dunny!"  and  he  clasped  the  two  in 
his  frenzied  arms  and  sobbed  convulsively. 
252 


DUNNY'S   FEARFUL  EXPERIENCE 

And  when  at  length  the  little  chap  was 
slowly  coming  to  himself  again,  and  Jerry  and 
Craig  were  toiling  up  the  hill  to  where  the 
horse  was  waiting,  the  pale  and  weakened  bit 
of  a  man  was  attempting  to  hold  to  both  in 
fond  affection. 

"We  —  had  a  ride,"  he  feebly  announced. 
"We  had  a  ride  in  the  flume — all  the  same." 


XXVIII 
A  VISIT   TO   TAMARACK 

T  was  Asa  Craig  himself  who  brought 
little  Dunny  down  to  Tamarack  and 
saw  him  fly  to  the  arms  of  his  sister. 
The  eager,  wistful  man  that  Sylvia 
presently  had  time  to  greet  and  no 
tice  had  come  without  an  announce 
ment  from  any  one,  and  no  description  hereto 
fore  supplied  her  of  Jerry's  partner  came  to  her 
mind  as  she  noted  the  visitor's  appearance. 
She  did  not  know  him  in  the  least. 

"My  name  is  Craig — Asa  Craig,"  he  there 
fore  said.  "I  have  come  to  meet  little  Dunny 's 
sister." 

"Mr.  Craig?"  she  repeated,  in  astonishment 
that  was  not  unmixed  with  distrust  and  re 
pulsion.  "Oh.  Of  course  we  had  to  meet  at 
last — some  time — naturally." 

She  had  not  intended  to  say  just  that,  and 
was  therefore  confused  and  ill  at  ease  as  soon 
as  the  words  were  spoken. 
254 


A  VISIT  TO  TAMARACK 

"I'm  afraid  you  didn't  care  to  meet  me — 
very  much,"  said  the  man,  smiling  in  a  way 
that  revealed  a  manner  of  pain  and  self-abase 
ment.  "I  don't  believe  I've  made  a  great 
many  friends  who  would  spread  kindly  stories 
of  my  character.  I  wish  you  would  get  an 
opinion  from  Dunny.  He  seems  to  like  me — 
a  little." 

But  Dunny  had  run  to  Mrs.  Hank  to  give  her 
a  kiss,  and  thence  to  his  donkey  to  give  him  a 
hug. 

"I — I'm  sure  he  would,"  said  Sylvia,  as  a 
comprehension  of  betterment  in  Craig  was 
swiftly  vouchsafed  to  her  intuitions.  "He 
must  have  had  a  very  nice  time  at  Millsite,  I 
am  sure." 

"I  think  he  did — except  for  the  —  fearful 
thing  that  happened  yesterday  morning,"  said 
the  man. 

She  saw  him  turn  suddenly  pale;  she  noted 
the  beads  of  perspiration  instantly  appearing 
on  his  brow  and  the  shaking  of  his  hands.  A 
vague  alarm  made  her  heart-beat  quicken  pain 
fully.  His  aspect  gave  her  a  fright  she  could 
not  endure. 

"What  was  it?"  she  asked  him,  fearing  to 
hear  some  dreadful  story  of  accident,  possibly 
involving  Jerry  Kirk  or  Allan  Kennedy. 

255 


DUNNY 

"He  —  took  a  ride  down  the  hill  —  in  the 
flume,"  said  Craig,  in  obvious  horror  of  the 
episode  as  it  rose  in  his  memory.  And,  palsied 
by  the  ordeal  of  living  anew  the  fear  and  semi- 
insanity  that  had  claimed  him  the  previous 
morning,  he  told  her  the  story  of  Dunny's  acci 
dent  and  Jerry's  tremendous  heroism. 

He  quite  broke  down.  The  frightened  face 
of  the  girl  before  him,  the  strain  and  intensity 
of  feeling  that  he  underwent  anew,  and  the 
weakening  reaction  of  his  nerves  left  the  man 
undone,  exhausted,  a  pitiable  spectacle  in  the 
tumult  of  his  suddenly  liberated  affections  for 
his  kind  and  for  Dunny  and  Jerry  in  particular. 

"If  Jerry  hadn't  saved  him — I  shouldn't 
have  wanted  to  live,"  he  added  to  the  narra 
tive,  brokenly.  "I'd  have  flung  myself  in  the 
flume  like  a  man  gone  insane.  I  couldn't  get 
along  without  him  now.  I  want  to  have  some 
one  to  like  me — some  one  to  think  I'm  human. 
Dunny  and  I  are  kind  of  chums.  I  want  you 
to  let  me  see  him  often.  I  wish  you  could  like 
me  a  little  yourself.  I'm  going  to  see  that 
Jerry  is  his  guardian — he  deserves  it  all,  and 
more — but  please,  Miss  Weaver,  give  a  cross 
old  man  a  little  chance." 

Sylvia  offered  him  her  hand  in  her  trusting 
way,  so  like  little  Dunny's. 
256 


A  VISIT  TO  TAMARACK 

"You  Western  men  are  all  the  same  —  at 
heart,"  she  said.  "I'd  like  to  be  a  friend." 

"God — bless  you,"  he  said,  in  a  faltering 
voice.  "I  don't  deserve  it.  I  don't — I  know  I 
don't  —  but  I  can  change.  I  like  that  little 
boy.  I  like  every  man  and  every  dog  he  likes. 
And  Jerry  and  I  are  pards  again.  We're  like  a 
pair  of  boys — and  little  Dunny  Weaver  did  it 
all.  I  want  to  see  him  often — him  and  you. 
Can  I  come,  pretty  nearly  as  often  as  Jerry  does, 
from  the  work?" 

"I  wish  you  would,"  answered  Sylvia,  in  the 
frank,  straightforward  manner  that  reminded 
him  so  constantly  of  her  little  brother.  "I  am 
sure  that  Dunny  would  miss  you  very  much  if 
you  should  leave  us  out." 

Dunny  himself  came  running  in,  all  childish 
delight  and  excitement  over  coming  home. 

"Unk!"  he  called.  "Oh,  Unk,  come  out  and 
see  my  donkey  and  the  calf!" 

"I  got  him  to  call  me  'Unk'  for  short,"  ex 
plained  the  man,  with  a  half-apologetic  smile, 
as  Dunny  clutched  the  two  bony  fingers  that 
he  loved.  "It  sort  of  gives  me  a  chance,  with 
his  'Tids'  and  'Jacks'  and  'Jerrys."1 

"I'd  like  to  go  along,"  said  Sylvia.  "After 
you've  seen  the  donkey  I'd  like  you  to  see  my 
little  garden." 

257 


DUNNY 

Out  into  sunshine  and  comfort  went  the 
three,  and  burro  and  blossoms  and  numerous 
wonders  all  came  duly  in  for  admiration. 

Then,  finally,  Craig  was  obliged  to  think  of 
departing  and  leaving  the  two  here  together. 
He  took  little  Dunny  in  his  hungering  arms 
and  held  him  in  passionate  affection  to  his 
heart. 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  little  fellow,  kissing 
the  stern  old  face  in  his  quaint,  sweet  way. 
"Good-bye,  Unk.  And  don't  forget  to  come 
back  pretty  soon." 

Sylvia  said,  "Wait  a  minute,"  and  running 
to  her  flower-bed  she  plucked  a  beautiful 
pansy  with  a  leaf  to  bear  it  company. 

This  she  pinned  to  their  visitor's  coat  as  she 
prettily  confirmed  little  Dunny 's  invitation  for 
him  to  come  again  without  delay. 

"Good-bye  —  Uncle  Asa,"  she  said  at  the 
end.  "Be  sure  to  come  whenever  you  can." 

The  man  made  no  attempt  to  answer.  He 
could  not  speak;  but  his  lips  were  trembling, 
and  Sylvia  understood.  He  hastened  away, 
only  turning  to  raise  his  hat  and  to  smile  when 
he  came  to  the  turn  of  the  road. 


XXIX 
WHEN    LOVE    HATH    WAITED 

LETTER  had  come  from  Jerry  Kirk, 
in  which  he  told  the  barest  little 
story  in  the  world  of  Dunny's  acci 
dental  ride  in  the  flume,  but  in  which 
there  was  much  concerning  Asa  Craig 
and  the  new-made  friendship  between 
them  —  all  the  result  of  Dunny's  visit  to  the 
camp. 

"And  now  that  we  are  reconciled,"  he  wrote, 
"there  will  be  no  more  trouble  concerning  the 
property.  Craig  is  an  altered  man,  ashamed  of 
what  he  calls  his  greed,  and  willing  to  have  me 
boss  the  whole  concern,  which  I  hope  I'll  never 
have  to  do.  He's  a  wonderful  fellow  in  many 
ways,  and  now  that  he's  found  his  heart  we're 
as  happy  as  chums  in  school-boy  days.  The 
fondness  between  us  is  almost  comical,  but  it's 
mighty  dear  to  me,  as  you  could  guess. 

"You  will  see  now  that  everything  comes  all 
right  for  you  and  Allan.     You  will  never  know 
2S9 


DUNNY 

how  much  I  appreciated  all  you  said  that  last 
day  I  was  down  in  town,  and  maybe  you  won't 
understand  how  it  makes  it  all  so  much  easier 
for  me  to  like  Kennedy  better,  but  it  does,  and 
I  feel  I  have  the  right  to  care  for  you  all  as  one 
a  little  nearer  than  just  a  friend.  So  be  sensi 
ble,  Sylvia — right  down  sensible — and  be  happy. 
You  deserve  it.  Allan's  a  fine  young  fellow — 
a  man  all  through — and  I'm  proud  to  be  able 
to  say  it.  Craig  and  I  would  be  tickled  to 
death  if  we  could  both  be  sort  of  fathers,  to 
give  you  away  at  the  wedding.  Allan  will  be 
down  on  Saturday  afternoon." 

An  uncontainable  happiness  crept  through 
Sylvia's  heart.  She  sang,  she  ran  out  in  the 
sunlight,  she  sped  to  the  woods  to  throw  her 
arms  about  a  tree. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  she  was  waiting  in 
the  aspen  grove  up  the  canon,  where  Allan 
once  had  found  her,  by  the  brook.  Never  had 
all  the  world  been  so  fragrantly  warm,  so 
pulsing  with  natural  joy,  so  melodious  with 
bird-note  and  with  tinkling  runes  of  the  stream. 

When  Allan  came  he  stood  a  little  away,  re 
garding  her  silently.  She  was  dressed  all  in 
white,  as  light  and  dainty  as  the  raiment  of  a 
mountain  flower.  A  vision  more  lovely  he 
knew  he  should  never  behold.  The  flush  of 
260 


WHEN   LOVE   HATH   WAITED 

color  in  her  cheeks,  the  light  of  love  in  her 
eyes,  the  flutter  of  breath  that  gently  agitated 
her  bosom  could  never  again  be  repeated  save 
by  herself. 

He  came  nearer — quite  near.  His  face  was 
pale.  He  trembled  where  he  stood. 

"Sylvia,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  shaken 
with  emotion,  "I  gave  you  up.  I  gave  you  up 
— and  don't  know  what  to  say.  I  love  you  so 
— but  who  will  give  you  back  again?" 

She  looked  very  steadily  into  his  eyes  in  her 
candid  way. 

"Allan,"  she  answered,  faintly,  "I  belong  to 
you." 

She  felt  him  quiver  as  he  slowly  took  her  in 
his  arms.  Then  in  a  moment  he  placed  his 
hand  against  her  cheek — the  caress  of  infinite 
tenderness — and  raising  her  face  he  softly  kissed 
her  on  the  lips. 


XXX 

TO  SEAL  A   HAPPINESS 

HE  summer  was  coming  again  across 
the  mountains,  coming  in  the  same 
new  way  so  infinitely  old  and  sweet. 
The  world  of  lofty  peaks  and  grassy 
valleys  received  again  their  heritage 
of  beauty  from  the  sun. 
Jerry  Kirk,  the  big,  gray  mountaineer,  in 
whom  a  score  of  boyish  traits  had  been  made 
perpetual,  came  swinging  up  the  little  path 
that  led  from  a  new  white  gate  to  a  new  white 
cottage  surrounded  by  its  garden  full  of  early 
blossoms.  Across  a  field  he  saw  an  approach 
ing  group  comprised  of  Asa  Craig  and  little 
Dunny  Weaver,  hand  in  hand,  while  just  behind 
them,  tagging  faithfully  in  their  wake,  was  the 
little,  dry-faced  cobbler,  Timonides  Flack.  Jerry 
smiled  at  the  picture  and  went  on  to  the 
house. 

It  was  Allan  Kennedy  who  gave  him  hearty 
262 


TO  SEAL  A  HAPPINESS 

welcome  at  the  door.  In  a  great  easy-chair  in 
the  cosey  little  parlor  was  Sylvia,  with  a  tiny, 
warm  bundle  on  her  lap  filling  her  soul  with 
happiness  ineffable.  She  was  a  little  pale,  but 
her  beauty  had  been  heightened  and  sub 
limated  by  the  chastening  ecstasy  of  mother 
hood. 

Something  of  holy  awe  crept  quietly  to 
Jerry's  heart  as  he  noted  the  look  that  had 
come  to  sanctify  her  loveliness.  He  paused 
for  a  long  time,  bending  down  above  the  little 
stranger  contentedly  moving  its  tiny  feet  and 
sucking  at  its  fist. 

Allan  came  up  and  leaned  on  Jerry's  shoulder 
in  the  affectionate  way  of  thoroughly  estab 
lished  companionship. 

"He's  a  pretty  little  rogue,"  said  the  moun 
taineer  at  last.  "He's  a  fine  little  boy.  Has 
he  got  any  name?" 

Sylvia's  pretty,  white  arm  slipped  quietly 
about  big  Jerry's  neck,  and  she  kissed  him 
on  the  forehead  as  a  daughter  might  have 
done. 

She  said,  "His  name  is  Kirk." 

The  door  had  opened,  and  in  came  Craig  and 
Dunny. 

"There  he  is,"  said  the  quaint  little  fellow, 
leading  the  man  quickly  forward  by  two  hard, 
263 


DUNNY 

bony  fingers.  "He  don't  know  me  yet,  but 
I'm  his  uncle,  all  the  same,  and  when  he  gets 
bigger,  in  about  a  week,  I'll  give  him  a  ride  on 
my  donkey." 


THE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


REC-D  LD-URC 


MAR  1 3 1985 


3  1158  00998  7545 


A     000  073  1 11     7 


